The old monk started proceedings by raising his right arm, palm downward, and proclaiming, “Heil Hitler!”
There was an immediate response from all those assembled. “Heil Hitler!”
His hands trembling slightly, the monk raised the goblet high and in German, invoked the blessing of the old gods of the Aryan people. Lowering the goblet to the table, he spread his arms wide and spoke in a long-dead tongue, known only to a privileged few.
The woman in white took up the goblet and accompanied the monk onto the mosaic. With some difficulty the monk knelt in front of the child. Then, taking each hand in turn, he kissed them before rising again to his feet. Dipping his right index finger into the liquid contained in the goblet, the blood of a freshly sacrificed animal, he withdrew it and marked the child’s forehead with the sign of the swastika.
Returning to the table, the monk said quietly, “You privileged few, today you have witnessed the anointment of the true leader of Germany, the new Führer. The time has arrived when you must swear your allegiance.”
The soldiers, as one, removed their shining black, polished steel helmets and, tucking them under their left arm, placed their right hand, fist clenched, over their heart. The general did the same with his soft staff cap.
“Begin,” said the monk when all movement had ceased.
“I swear by the Aryan Gods this holy oath: that I will render unconditional obedience to the Führer of the German Reich and people, one day to be the Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces, and that I am ready, as a brave soldier, to give my life at any time for this oath.”
On completion, the soldiers replaced their head dress and stood to attention.
The monk stretched out his arms to them as if he were embracing them all. “Brothers,” he said, “we are all one in this. It is now our sworn duty to protect the Führer, even at the cost of our own lives!”
Lowering his arms, he was silent for a moment, then raising his right arm in the fascist salute roared, “SIEG!”
“HEIL!” roared back the soldiers, raising their arms.
“SIEG!”
“HEIL!”
“SIEG!
“HEIL!”
The monk closed the proceedings with a blessing to them all, bestowed upon them by the old gods.
Helped by the woman in white, the old man then left the room, followed by the couple and the child. The soldiers tarried, giving the VIPs time to clear the corridor. Then they too left, the walls themselves seeming to shudder as the heavy wooden door was slammed shut.
The circular room was now silent, devoid of all sound and all movement. Devoid of sound and movement, that is, except for the faint rustling of one of the long SS banners. From behind the banner emerged a figure, entirely clothed in black. Even his face and the backs of his hands had been covered with black camouflage paint. On his head he wore a black beret and round his neck hung not a golden swastika, but a simple wooden cross, supported on a leather thong. He moved silently and swiftly to the table and looked into the goblet, sniffing the contents. What he found caused his face to register the disgust he felt.
Outside he could hear the shuffling of feet as the soldiers formed up, forcing him to slink back against the wall by the door and draw a pistol from the inside of his jacket. Listening intently, he heard orders barked, followed by the crash, crash of jackboots as the soldiers goose-stepped their way back down the corridor.
As the sounds faded, the man relaxed and moved to the door, trying the handle. As anticipated, it was locked. Fishing in a satchel he wore at his side, he produced a shiny brass key and inserted it. The door swung open and the man exited cautiously into the dimly lit corridor. He walked only a few paces in the direction taken by the soldiers before disappearing down an offshoot from the main passage. The narrow corridor he had entered was completely unlit, and the man was forced to feel his way along until he came to a small, locked portal in the outer wall of the castle. Another key was produced from the satchel, and the man was outside and in the surrounding woods in a flash.
He made his way stealthily through the trees to a clearing in which was parked a Citroën Avant. Moving to the car, he unlocked it but stood for a moment with his forearms resting on its roof, gazing up at the sky. Whipping off his beret, he revealed a shock of white hair, and, as the full moon crept out from behind a cloud, it shone momentarily on the upturned, blackened face of Wolfgang Rahn.
A Visit to the Castle
The group that sat around the table in a conference room in the HQ building of BAOR, in the small town of Oeynhausen, listened intently to the story told by Wolfgang Rahn. As he concluded, he looked around the group: Dan Kelly, Sybilla Thorstaadt and two that he had only just met, Brigadier Bob McFarlane and a tough-looking ex-paratrooper, Horst Manteufel. Rahn raised his eyebrows as an invitation for questions.
“Wolf, how did you become entangled in this business?” asked Dan Kelly.
“I have for some time been studying some of the esoteric cults that exist or have existed and perhaps have current day offshoots and adherents: Rosicrucians, Templers, Brotherhood of the Black Sun, Thule, Vril Society and so on. Consequently, when Billa and I uncovered the link between Thule and the ratlines and of course Müller, I became interested. My superiors, on the other hand, became extremely anxious at the prospect of a secret society operating in France and tasked me to investigate further. I knew Thule existed, and now I had evidence that there was a link between Thule and the remnants of the SS
