in Germany, Himmler commanded both Gestapo and SS as well as the latter's own intelligence agency, the Sicherheitsdienst, or SD. It was in connection with this latter function that Himmler had come today.
'Well?' Hitler asked, too eager to observe the pleasantries with which he normally greeted old comrades from the early Nazi party. 'What have you found?'
Unfazed by the unusual brusqueness, Himmler smiled. 'Good news, Mein Fuhrer! The priest Kaas has confirmed the rumors.'
Hitler looked puzzled. 'Kaas?'
'The Vatican priest, the one whose family lives in Munich. He has confirmed the discovery made while excavating for the last Pope's tomb.'
Hitler's eyes took on that faraway look Himmler knew so well. 'Excellent! All we have to do is verify it for ourselves. That whining Pope in the Vatican will be silenced!'
Himmler was unsure exactly what difference papal pronouncements could possibly make. After all, the total army at the Vatican's command, Swiss Guards, numbered only a hundred or so, but he knew better than to question Germany's leader. Hitler was, after all, following the advice of his astrologer, the infallible prophet who had advised action in the Rheinland, Austria, and Czechoslovakia when the generals had wavered.
Hitler had a fascination for religion and the occult. Himmler winced when he thought how much had been spent to obtain the spear of Longinus, supposedly the spear that had pierced Christ's side but actually a very ordinary piece of ancient military hardware that looked suspiciously contemporary. Hitler had thought nothing of the expense and risk of sending a team to British controlled Palestine in a fruitless search for the Ark of the Covenant. He had had four truckloads of what looked like pure junk removed from a cave in southwestern France, a cave Himmler understood had served as the last refuge of some medieval group of heretics. Only the threat of a cross- Channel invasion had delayed a further expedition to southwestern France, where Hitler was convinced the Holy Grail was hidden.
But then, who was Himmler to question the mind that had defied first the political geniuses of Germany by becoming Chancellor perfectly legally, and then the best military minds by the bloodless annexation of what was rightfully Germany's? If Der Fuhrer said the Pope needed to be cowed into silence, so be it.
'Imagine, Himmler,' Hitler continued, 'no longer having to be concerned about that damned Dago meddling with world opinion.' He glanced around the room as though he anticipated seeing someone or something not there before. 'In fact, Himmler, I have additional plans for the Pope.' Himmler recognized the onslaught of one of Hitler's famous monologues that frequently went on for hours. Feeling only slightly disloyal, Himmler tuned him out and began to make mental plans to accomplish his Fuhrer's wishes. '… And you have just such a man,' Hitler finished. Uncertain if he had been standing there an hour or only a few minutes, Himmler came back to the real world. 'Who would that be, Mein Fuhrer?'
He was not surprised at the answer.
It was then Himmler had one of his few original ideas, an inspiration so brilliant he could not keep it to himself. 'Mein Fuhrer, why bother? Would it not make more sense to simply take this potentially bothersome Pope prisoner, do so secretly? That would shut him up. We could also ransom him off for the considerable treasure of the Catholic Church.'
Himmler could see from the flare in Hitler's blue eyes that his plan was recognized as potentially brilliant.
'Say nothing of this,' Hitler said slowly. 'Let us keep it to ourselves while I consider it. First, though, let us see about obtaining this new discovery from under the Vatican.'
The door had hardly closed behind Himmler when Hitler picked up the phone on his desk. 'Get me General Wolff, SS commander in Rome.'
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Southwestern France
Montsegur
The present
How the hell had Skorzeny gotten up there? From where Lang stood, the south face of the hill went straight up, crowned by what could have been a pile of scree or the ruins of some sort of building. Two of the other sides, east and west, were even steeper. The north of the hill, Lang guessed, could have been conquered by experienced climbers hammering pitons into the few crevices in the white rock. That was it, he decided. The Germans had made a technical climb up the north face, then rappelled down to the cave's mouth.
''You will not be climbing that,' Gurt said from the car, where she had retreated after one glance at the slopes.
'There is nothing left there, anyway,' added Guillaume, the guide they had hired for the day. Montsegur was not exactly on the maps tourists bought. 'Half the cave collapsed a few years ago, anyway.'
Alternating his gaze between the hillside and the rock strewn ground, Lang began to circle the incline. 'Maybe so, but I still need to get up there.'
Guillaume sighed with a Galic shrug that conveyed his frustration with people who did not understand. Americans never admitted something was impossible; they just went ahead and did it. In this case, ascent of Montsegur was not only impossible but pointless. A number of nearby mountains had as good or better views of the tortured landscape of the Languedoc, with the Pyrenees little more than a blue dream in the west. Some of these views came along with small restaurants where the food was passably good and, if one was a local, you were not cheated on the wine.
Guillaume had mentioned this both to the tall German woman who had the sense to sit in the car out of the sun and to the taller American who did not. But nothing would dissuade him from this specific hill. His hand went to his pocket, as though assuring himself it would be available for the euros he had been promised. That was another characteristic of Americans, his favorite: They paid without haggling over the price.
Suddenly, the American was gone, vanished as suddenly as if he had evaporated.
Guillaume moved toward the place he had last seen him. Having a man disappear like that was frightening, almost as frightening as the chance Guillaume would not be paid if he didn't reappear.
Then he was there again, seeming to step right out of the rock of the mountainside.
'Gurt,' Lang called, 'come take a look at this!'
Gurt's height made her look as though she were unfolding as she got out of the car and walked over.
'Look.' Lang was pointing.
'It looks like a small hole to me,' Gurt said, careful not to slip on loose rocks. ''A hole, yes,' Lang said. 'But notice the edges.' Gurt reached an exploratory hand out to run along the sides of the opening. 'They are smooth, as if they were carved.'
Lang sank to his knees and began to pull rocks away from the orifice. Within minutes, a symmetrically arched aperture about four feet high was visible.
Still kneeling, Lang crept forward. 'This isn't natural, either. There's some sort of path inside.'
And for the second time he disappeared, returning with a grin on his face. 'Stairs. Leading to the top, I'll bet.'
'Now we know how Skorzeny got up there,' Gurt observed.
Lang stood, dusting himself off. 'Not this way. There's rubble, stones, dust piled up inside.' He turned to Guillaume, who was showing renewed interest. 'You said part of the cave collapsed a few years back. Do you remember when?'
Guillaume frowned. Part of the roof of a cave, visible from the road but of no use to anyone except this American, falls in. Rocks fall down mountains, sometimes blocking the road; some days it rains, others it does not. Who keeps track of such things? It is difficult enough to decide if temperature and rainfall have combined to produce good vintages and rich clover that, by way of the cows, will be converted to cheese.
But the American wanted to know, and the American would decide the question of whether there would be a gratuity above the price agreed upon.
Guillaume screwed up his face in thought. 'It was shortly after Easter the year my sister's first child was
