Wolf noted a hooded figure on each side of the hall, lighting prayer candles. They were wearing the same style of brown robe he had seen on the cyclist on the street. Simple wooden crosses strung with strips of black leather hung from their necks. Perhaps they were monks.
He tightened the rifle against his shoulder and checked his weapon to ensure the safety was off. However confidential the nature of their mission, Wolf imagined that news of Himmler’s presence in Paris would travel quickly.
With the professor on his heels, Himmler stomped down the long center nave, looking for the priest on duty. An elderly clergyman emerged near the main altar. He was dressed in a white collar and a simple black cloak that reached the tops of his shoes. As the Nazi entourage approached, he pressed his fingertips against his chest, outlining the four points of the cross. It seemed to Wolf that he was steeling himself for unpleasant business.
The priest lifted his arm in a perfunctory sieg heil as he greeted them. Such a gesture would have been unheard of a year earlier. But that had been before the disappearance of hundreds of thousands of French citizens over the summer and fall. “I am Father LeFevre,” he said in passable German. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
“Let’s talk in private,” Himmler said. He turned to Hoffman. “You have your orders.”
Father LeFevre pulled a heavy gas lamp from its wall fixture and led the other four Nazis — Himmler, Seiler, Wolf and Lang — across the choir ambulatory to a doorway in the far south corner. They soon came to a tightly wound stone staircase leading up to the south tower. Before ascending, Wolf turned back and observed Hoffman lingering by the high altar. He seemed to be examining it. What were his orders? Wolf wondered. Who were the others Himmler had been expecting?
Each stair step bore the deep grooves of centuries of use. The ascent proved to be a remarkably steep climb. By the third-floor landing, Himmler was breathing heavily from his mouth. The more athletic priest stopped and looked down at him, grinning. “It’s 387 steps to the tower,” the priest remarked. “Lucky for you, my quarters are on the next landing.”
They exited the staircase and came to a narrow hallway consisting of several closed doors. The priest’s lamp shed dim light on a row of humbly framed portraits illustrating a long succession of French clergy. A cold draft swept through the hallway. Notre Dame seemed even colder than Wewelsburg Castle. Wolf could see his breath.
The priest went through the first doorway on his right. He took a wooden match from his pocket, struck it against the wall and lit a second gas lantern. The room was quite large, and the walls were jammed with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, each of them bowing under the weight of thick manuscripts. LeFevre walked behind a large desk that was bare except for a magnifying glass, a pen and an ink well. He gestured for Himmler and Seiler to sit in the chairs opposite him.
“Guard the hallway,” Himmler told Lang. “Make sure no one gets past.” Lang shot Wolf a jealous glare as he exited and shut the door behind him, leaving his friend privy to the reichsfuhrer’s private business with the Catholic Church.
The priest cleared his throat. “How can I be of help?”
“Let us get right to the point,” Himmler replied. “We are here for the Holy Relics.”
Father LeFevre managed a nervous smile. It was public knowledge that Notre Dame claimed to hold the true Holy Crown — the crown of thorns worn by Jesus during the Crucifixion — as well as a nail from the True Cross, a fragment of the Holy Sponge, and other treasures.
“The Relics of the Passion are on display for believers on the first Friday of each month,” he said. “But for you, of course, yes, we can arrange a private viewing. Tonight, if you wish.”
“You misunderstand,” Himmler said. “We are taking the relics, all of them, with us to Germany.”
The priest’s lips parted at the audacity of Himmler’s request. “That is…that is quite impossible.”
Had Wolf not seen the vast quantities of Christian antiquities Himmler had already acquired for his private museum at Wewelsburg Castle, he would not have believed the request himself. But now he knew what the priest did not. Himmler was not afraid of being labeled a heretic. He seemed to have no fear of God whatsoever.
Himmler smiled. “Was King Louis IX a heretic when he brought the Holy Relics to Paris from Constantinople?”
The priest could scarcely conceal his temper. “Saint Louis considered himself a lieutenant of God. Although he was King of France, when he delivered the relics he was but a humble servant. He wore no royal robes, no shoes even. He was a picture of humility.”
“Is it not true that this saint you speak of was, in fact, a wealthy crusader responsible for the mass slaughter of countless Islamists?”
“With all due respect, Herr Himmler, you are many things, but you are not an expert in French history.”
Seiler winced, seeming to brace himself for Himmler’s response. Wolf too feared for the priest’s life. On the morning Albert died, he had witnessed firsthand the speed with which Himmler solved his problems. If he would execute Beck in public for reckless negligence, he could only imagine what would be done to a belligerent French priest that did not want to hand over precious relics.
And yet Himmler remained calm. “We have nevertheless followed proper Vatican protocol.” He reached inside his jacket pocket, produced a sealed envelope and tossed it unceremoniously onto Father LeFevre’s desk.
The red wax seal was imprinted with the Fisherman’s Ring. “The mark of His Holiness,” LeFevre intoned as he ran his fingers over it slowly, as if cataloguing the moment in his mind.
Finally he broke the seal with a brass letter opener. Then he carefully unfolded the letter and read the concise note twice before resuming eye contact with his German adversary.
“Surely His Holiness did not know what he was signing.”
Himmler’s voice was calm, almost tranquil. “Is it really so unbelievable? As you must know, Pacelli is a longtime friend of the German people.”
It was well known that Pacelli — who had taken the name Pius XII upon his election in 1939 — had seemingly done virtually everything in his power to establish friendly relations with Hitler. His submissive behavior had not been entirely unexpected, given that he had spent several years living in both Munich and Berlin as Papal Nuncio to Bavaria, and later, to all of Germany. Even after being called back to Rome to serve as Cardinal Secretary of State, he had helped broker the Reichskonkordat, the treaty that had supposedly guaranteed the rights of the Catholic Church in Germany. The pope had been widely criticized for not breaking the treaty despite widespread violations by the German government.
LeFevre leaned back in his chair. “What are you implying?”
“When Pacelli was ambassador, he hosted German leadership at his residence in Berlin on many occasions. And so, when the death of Pope XI was announced, we extended our influence within the Vatican to sway the conclave.”
“No. God chooses Popes. Cardinals are merely his instruments.”
“Believe what you wish,” Himmler said. “But I assure you that the pontiff remains not only a steadfast friend and supporter of the German people, but also one that longs for the historical bond between the Vatican and the Holy Roman Empire. Even now the Crown Jewels and the Spear of Longinus have been returned to their rightful place at Wewelsburg Castle.”
“Nobody has returned anything,” the priest spat. “They were stolen when your armies occupied Austria.”
Dr. Seiler sat forward. “Father LeFevre, as a civilian observer, I urge you to watch your tone. You speak as if you yourself are eager to become a martyr.”
Himmler held his hand up and smiled. “Professor, relax. I actually enjoy intellectual banter with men of the cloth. And even I am too superstitious to kill a priest in Notre Dame Cathedral.”