“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.
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.
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.
The descent seemed to last an eternity.
Helpless, Obersturmbannführer Le Guermand gazed at the branches slapping against the windshield like wild animals clawing the vehicle.
Then, by some miracle, the slope flattened out, and the battered truck came to a stop in what looked like a muddy creek.
Le Guermand’s head hit the steering wheel, but he didn’t feel any pain. He had slipped into a kind of trance on the edge of madness. Everything around him was dark. The truck had slammed into a rocky bank covered with blackish moss. Only a few rays of sunlight could make their way into this dark chasm.