“Because he saw you being kidnapped and chased us all the way to Fotley airfield. Arrived just too late.”

“How unfortunate.”

“It certainly was for you.”

The Baron said, “Enough, Marco. Let’s show our guest some courtesy.” He got up and leaned on his cane. “Come with me, General, and I’ll show you some of the rarer sights of the Schloss.” He led the way to a door beside the stairway and nodded to Marco, who opened it. “A tunnel built in the fifteenth century to give access to the chapel, which, incidentally, is very fine. Let’s take a look,” and he led the way in.

At that moment, Dillon was kicking on Klein’s door. After a while, it opened and Klein stood there. He recoiled instinctively at the uniforms. They pushed him back inside.

“Don’t worry, we’re from Kubel,” Dillon said in German. “Are you ready to take us in?”

“Yes,” Klein said eagerly. He reeked of drink, but turned, took down his hunting coat and put the sawn-off shotgun in one of the pockets.

Dillon called Kubel on his Codex Four. It was answered instantly. “We’re here already and made contact with Klein, so we’re going straight in. To hell with waiting. You said it would take you twenty minutes. Leave in fifteen.”

“I’m your man,” Kubel said. “Good luck.”

Dillon said to Billy, “Right, let’s get it done.” He turned to Klein. “My friend doesn’t speak German. Just lead the way and let’s get on with it.”

The Baron leading, they went into the chapel, the candles guttering, the great bowl of the eternal flame burning. The heraldic banners hung from each side of the roof in the gloom.

“Seven hundred years of my family’s history, General.”

“Very impressive,” Ferguson said. “No hint of the Third Reich. I see no Nazi banners.”

“But I was never a member of the Nazi Party.”

“However, you did give distinguished service to the SS.”

“The Waffen SS, the greatest fighting soldiers the world has ever seen.”

“That’s one point of view. And you were Hitler’s aide.”

“True, but he had many. I was an office boy, if you like.”

“Come now, entrusted with the holiest of missions?”

“On the whim of a man who had become unbalanced at the end. Wait there.”

He walked behind the mausoleum, opened the secret cavity, took out the diary and held it up. “You think this is what it’s all about, the Führer’s diary, a ‘holy book’?”

“That’s what Sara Hesser told me.”

“Wrong. My family motto is: A Matter of Honor. The Führer’s mission got me out of Berlin, gave me money to make a fresh start. Because of that, it is a matter of honor to guard it. Oh, some of the information, particularly that affecting the President, could be useful, but that was never the point of my feud with you.”

He replaced the diary, Ferguson heard a creak as the cavity closed. “So what is the point?”

“Kate Rashid saved my life in Baghdad. Dillon killed her brothers and was responsible for her death – and through him, you.”

“So I’m to pay the blood price?”

“Dillon will also pay if, as my son hopes, he comes for you.”

“So what’s my price?”

“We’ll go back to the hall and discuss it.”

In spite of the floodlighting of the Schloss, the wooded area on the slopes was dark and gloomy, as Klein led the way through the shrubbery to the chamber entrance and removed the grill. He went down the steps, switched on a large flashlight and splayed it across the concrete tunnel.

“Here we are. Takes us straight into the heart of the Schloss.” He took out half a bottle of schnapps and poured it down.

“Good,” Dillon said. “But cut that out. We need you sober.”

At the same moment at Arnheim, Max Kubel boosted power and let the Storch go, the Argus engine responding magnificently. He lifted off into rain.

The others stood watching. Hannah said, “It’s all up to Dillon now.”

“Well, it usually bleeding is,” Harry Salter said.

When they emerged into the basement area, Klein led the way through a series of deserted corridors and kitchens. “No servants?” Dillon asked.

“I checked in the village. He only keeps a handful. He’s given them all time off.”

They went up a flight of stairs, and he opened a door cautiously. “The outer hall,” he whispered. It was dark. They could hear voices close by. “They must be in the Great Hall,” Klein said. “Follow me. If we go up the stairway over there, there’s a place where you can look down.”

He swallowed more schnapps while Dillon explained to Billy, and they moved on, their weapons at the ready.

SEATED BY THE fire again, Ferguson said, “So let’s hear the worst.”

“It’s simple,” Rossi told him. “Your record in the field of international intelligence makes you a very valuable commodity. Of course, I could simply shoot you, but that would be a waste. What I get for you will in some way make up for the financial loss over the Mona Lisa debacle.”

“There’s only one problem with that,” Ferguson said cheerfully. “My value would depend on what I had to say, and I’m not a very talkative individual.”

“Oh, we can take care of that. A little drug called succinylcholine. It’s used as a muscle relaxant in certain operations, but only if the patient is unconscious. If he isn’t, it leaves him totally paralyzed, unable to breathe and in exquisite pain. The effect lasts two minutes, but the idea of a repeat performance would be too terrible to contemplate. No, you’d sing for your supper.”

And Ferguson knew fear as he never had before, but managed a smile. “Sounds pretty ghastly,” and he turned to the Baron. “And you would approve of this business?”

“I’m sure I won’t have to. You will, of course, be sensible.”

Halfway up the great stone stairs was a small viewing room to one side, a very medieval item with an open front through which one could see everything in the Great Hall. Dillon, Billy and Klein, staying cautiously back, had a clear enough sight.

The magnificent chandelier hanging from the boarded ceiling illuminated the scene below: the oaken table; the silver candlesticks, candles flaring; Newton and Cook on the landing at the top of the marble stairs; Gibson by the log fire; the Baron and Ferguson seated opposite each other; Rossi to one side.

Dillon took it all in and pulled them back. “Does this staircase link up to the other landing?” he asked Klein in German.

“Yes.”

“And the door down below is the only way into the Great Hall?”

“That’s right.”

“Good. I’ll send my friend up to the landing and I’ll go through the door.”

“And what about me?”

“You stay here and keep watch.”

“Now look…”

Dillon said, “Do as you’re told.” He jammed his machine pistol against Klein’s chest. “I mean it.”

Klein put up a hand. “Okay – fine.”

Billy said, “Is he being awkward?”

“More like a pain in the arse. Go up those stairs, turn at the top and you’ll be on the landing overlooking the hall. Think you can handle Newton and Cook?”

“Any day, including my day off. What about you?”

“I’ll go downstairs and go in hard through the hall door. Fifty, Billy, counting from now.” They parted, Billy up and Dillon down. Klein, furious, took out the bottle of schnapps and drank from it, then went back into the viewing room, taking out his sawn-off shotgun.

Below, Rossi was saying, “I thought an auction might be fun.”

“You do like to twist the knife, old son,” Ferguson said. “Like the ivory Madonna. Oh, I know all about that. When you were on the run behind Serb lines, you killed four people, only two of whom were women. You make a habit of that. Witness Sara Hesser.”