The floor appeared to be made from some sort of white stone, although he could also make out a dark disc at its center, directly beneath where he was coming down. It was only when his feet unexpectedly landed on the disc that he realized it was, in fact, a large table. He let go of the rope and took the light from his mouth.
The table was made of wood and was surrounded by twelve high-backed oak chairs, each adorned with a tarnished silver plaque engraved with a different coat of arms and a family name. But Tom's eye was drawn less to the chairs than their motionless, grinning occupants.
For assembled around the table, like macabre guests at some apocalyptic dinner party, were twelve gleaming skeletons in full SS dress uniform.
Hardly daring to breathe, he let his flashlight beam play across chests gleaming with medals and ribbons, down to the lower left arm where he found their embroidered cuff-bands.
The gold lettering glowed against the black material, revealing their owners' regimental title: Totenkopfsorden. The Order of the Death's Head.
CHAPTER FIFTY
There you go." Lasche pointed to the typewriter-sized wooden box on his desk. "I've only sold one Enigma before. A few years ago now. He was a Russian collector, if I remember rightly."
"And the other components?" The voice was soft and lilting, hinting at lazy, humid evenings on a porch somewhere in South Carolina or Louisiana.
"Already in the machine. Of course, the final settings are up to you, Mr.… I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name." The beneficial effects of the blood transfusion were already beginning to wear off, and Lasche was feeling tired and a little more unfocused than he would have liked for this meeting. It was unavoidable, given the hour. He'd had little warning, merely a phone call informing him that someone would be coming to make the exchange and to ensure that he was alone.
"Foster. Kyle Foster." He was a large, rugged-looking man, his thick beard melting into wild, unkempt light brown hair, his steel gray eyes still and watchful. A dangerous man, thought Lasche. "Any problems getting hold of this?"
"Not really. I have my contacts. People I trust for this sort of job. They're reliable and discreet and keep themselves to themselves. Besides, they're the last people on earth anyone would imagine I was involved with."
"You mean the Sons of American Liberty?" Foster asked with a smile.
"How do you know that?" Lasche was at once amazed and angry. Amazed that they knew, angry because it meant that they'd been watching him. That they hadn't trusted him.
"Cassius does not take chances. Just because he asked you to get him an Enigma machine, doesn't mean he didn't care how you did it. As soon as he was certain that your man Blondi — was that his name?" Lasche nodded dumbly. "As soon as he was certain that your man Blondi had taken delivery of this" — Foster patted the wooden box protectively — "and was on his way home, he asked me to go and… meet with your people."
The hesitation, the slight edge that Lasche detected in Foster's voice, hinted at some sinister implication to this seemingly innocent remark. Though he feared he already knew the answer, Lasche couldn't resist putting the question: "Meet with them? What do you mean?"
"I mean that I locked them all in a booby-trapped room and tipped off the Feds so that they'd be the ones to set it off." Foster seemed to smile at the memory. "They'll be too busy blaming each other to ever figure out what really happened."
"All of them?" Lasche gasped, feeling his chest tightening, his breathing becoming ragged. "Why?"
"Loose ends." Foster reached into his pocket and pulled out a silenced 9mm pistol. "Cassius won't stand for loose ends. Which brings us to you…"
Lasche locked eyes with Foster, saw his cold and unblinking gaze, the gun pointed at his chest.
"I assume there's no possibility of a reprieve?" His voice remained calm and businesslike. He had been around long enough to know that neither tears nor tantrums would have any effect. "No amount of money that would convince you to put down your gun and walk out of here?"
Foster gave a half smile. "Then I'd be the dead man and not you."
"I see." A pause.
"But my employer did have one offer to make you."
"Which is?" Lasche's voice was fired by a faint glimmer of hope.
"You get to choose."
"Choose?" He frowned in confusion. "Choose what?"
Foster jerked his head at the room full of weapons behind him. "How you die."
Lasche gave a rueful shake of his head. He had been foolish to expect anything else from Cassius. Even so, it was a concession. A concession that Lasche valued because it gave him some element of control in his passing. Ridiculous as it may have seemed, he really did appreciate the gesture.
"Tell him… tell him thank you."
Lasche reversed his wheelchair out from behind his desk and slowly rolled past the display cabinets along the left-hand wall, appraising their contents. Foster followed him, his gun still drawn, the sound of his footsteps like the steady, inexorable beat of the drum as the tumbrel rolled toward the steps of the guillotine.
Lasche's eyes skipped from item to item, weighing the merits of each against the other. A Kukri knife presented itself as the first possible candidate. It had belonged to a Gurkha in the British Army who had died in the Indian Mutiny of 1857. The hooked slash of its blade was covered, for legend has it that a Kukri can never be unsheathed without drawing blood.
Then there was the polished elegance of the pistol used by Alexander Pushkin in a duel fought on the banks of the Black River in 1837. The poet had entered into the duel to defend his wife's honor against the unwanted advances of a dashing officer. Mortally wounded, he died a few days later, plunging the whole of Russia into mourning.
Another possibility was the Winchester M1873 — the rifle that "won the West" with its fearsome accuracy and reliability. Lasche's two examples were especially rare, modern ballistics having confirmed them as two of the eight 73s used by Native Americans at the Battle of the Little Bighorn in 1876.
But he kept going, past these and many more like them, until his wheelchair hummed to a halt in front of the suit of samurai armor. At its feet, carefully mounted on their stand, were two swords. In the end, he knew now, these had been the only possible choice.
"A samurai wore two swords," Lasche said softly. He could sense that Foster was standing behind him, although he did not look around. "The katana and the wakizashi" He pointed first at the long sword, then the shorter one mounted above it. "They were a symbol of prestige and pride, and along with the Sacred Mirror and the Comma-Shaped Beads, are said to be one of three sacred treasures of Japan."
"They're old?" Foster sounded uninterested. "Edo period — about 1795. So old, yes, but not as old as the armor."
"And that's what you want?" Foster had stepped forward so that he was alongside Lasche, his voice skeptical. Lasche nodded.
"Okay." Foster bent toward the display, then looked up to see which of the swords Lasche wanted.
"Have you heard of Bushido?" asked Lasche.
"No." There was irritation in Foster's voice now, as if he wanted to get it over with. Lasche took no notice.
"Bushido is the way of the warrior, the code by which the samurai ruled their lives. It teaches that, to save face, a samurai may commit seppuku, a form of ritualized suicide."