an hour or so. It is important. You see, I have to be missing something about this girl and her escape. It has to be something simple, something obvious; it always is. Whoever rescued her was a professional, an American agent, we think, but I cannot understand why they should want her. Now Beria is involved. He telephoned. He wants her found at all costs, but he would not say why. I do not understand why she is so important to him. There has to be something I have missed, something stupidly obvious.”
Anna suddenly looked worried.
“Beria?”
“Yes. After sending her down to Prague, I was supposed to send her to him. It was one of his people who told us where she was hiding. Now she has escaped, and he is not happy.”
Stanislav Paslov controlled a large section of Soviet-occupied territory with terror and fear, and the proverbial fist of iron. However, inside this particular Leipzig apartment, his wife maintained a similar measure of control, with warmth, and love, and the occasional manufactured frown. He was watching that frown as she said,
“You have forty-five minutes, until dinner is ready; not a second more.”
He nodded gratefully. She returned to the kitchen and closed the door. He sat down at the table, opened the first file, and began scanning the documents.
The first showed sketches of a derelict apartment in Berlin, where a Russian army detachment had discovered the mutilated remains of an officer. It provided a copy and translation of some political graffiti found drawn on the wall, and a sketch of a reverse fylfot cross. An attached forensic report confirmed that the killer had used the victim’s blood to draw the symbol. It went on to describe the condition of the corpse, and provide drawings of similar crosses carved into the face and torso. At the bottom of the page, a number of other files were referenced. Paslov searched through the pile until he found them.
Each contained reports of unsolved gruesome murders. The first had been committed in Prague, the remaining five in Berlin. Each of the victims had been officers in the Red Army, and each had died under similarly bizarre circumstances.
They had been found naked, bound hand and foot with a woman’s silk stockings, their mouths gagged with a pair of silk knickers. In every case, reverse fylfot crosses had been gouged into the face and torso, and the genitals crudely hacked away. The cause of death given was the same in each case: loss of blood, from stab wounds to the jugular veins. Traces of semen and strands of blonde hair had also been found at each of the scenes.
Paslov downed the schnapps. He shuddered as the harshness hit home, and then read on.
No less than seven ‘experts’ had documented their opinions on the reverse fylfot crosses. Their conclusions ranged from the sign of a Hindu goddess, to all manner of Nazi insignia and trappings of the occult. They had considered geographic origins as diverse as Scandinavia, Central America and the Indian subcontinent. Some claimed the sign to be Pagan, some said it was Runic, others thought Mayan or Celtic. Someone had even suggested medieval witchcraft.
They had seemingly agreed on only one thing. It wasn’t an official Nazi-party symbol.
As Paslov studied the sign, he recalled an earlier conversation on the subject of Thor’s hammer. One of the ‘experts’ had claimed it was that, and said the connection between the hammer and the reverse fylfot dated back to medieval Norse and England before Christianity. Norse mythology claimed that Thor’s Hammer could strike anywhere, any time, and he never missed his target. That same expert had insisted it was a message to the authorities: there would be more killings, and the killer would strike without warning.
That was when Paslov had headed for home. He’d had enough of ‘experts’ for one day.
But it still left him with many questions, and no answers. What was the symbol, and what, if anything, did it mean? Was it the sign of some
Anna suddenly looked worried.
“Beria?”
“Yes. After sending her down to Prague, I was supposed to send her to him. It was one of his people who told us where she was hiding. Now she has escaped, and he is not happy.”
Stanislav Paslov controlled a large section of Soviet-occupied territory with terror and fear, and the proverbial fist of iron. However, inside this particular Leipzig apartment, his wife maintained a similar measure of control, with warmth, and love, and the occasional manufactured frown. He was watching that frown as she said,
“You have forty-five minutes, until dinner is ready; not a second more.”
He nodded gratefully. She returned to the kitchen and closed the door. He sat down at the table, opened the first file, and began scanning the documents.
The first showed sketches of a derelict apartment in Berlin, where a Russian army detachment had discovered the mutilated remains of an officer. It provided a copy and translation of some political graffiti found drawn on the wall, and a sketch of a reverse fylfot cross. An attached forensic report confirmed that the killer had used the victim’s blood to draw the symbol. It went on to describe the condition of the corpse, and provide drawings of similar crosses carved into the face and torso. At the bottom of the page, a number of other files were referenced. Paslov searched through the pile until he found them.
Each contained reports of unsolved gruesome murders. The first had been committed in Prague, the remaining five in Berlin. Each of the victims had been officers in the Red Army, and each had died under similarly bizarre circumstances.
They had been found naked, bound hand and foot with a woman’s silk stockings, their mouths gagged with a pair of silk knickers. In every case, reverse fylfot crosses had been gouged into the face and torso, and the genitals crudely hacked away. The cause of death given was the same in each case: loss of blood, from stab wounds to the jugular veins. Traces of semen and strands of blonde hair had also been found at each of the scenes.
Paslov downed the schnapps. He shuddered as the harshness hit home, and then read on.
No less than seven ‘experts’ had documented their opinions on the reverse fylfot crosses. Their conclusions ranged from the sign of a Hindu goddess, to all manner of Nazi insignia and trappings of the occult. They had considered geographic origins as diverse as Scandinavia, Central America and the Indian subcontinent. Some claimed the sign to be Pagan, some said it was Runic, others thought Mayan or Celtic. Someone had even suggested medieval witchcraft.
They had seemingly agreed on only one thing. It wasn’t an official Nazi-party symbol.
As Paslov studied the sign, he recalled an earlier conversation on the subject of Thor’s hammer. One of the ‘experts’ had claimed it was that, and said the connection between the hammer and the reverse fylfot dated back to medieval Norse and England before Christianity. Norse mythology claimed that Thor’s Hammer could strike anywhere, any time, and he never missed his target. That same expert had insisted it was a message to the authorities: there would be more killings, and the killer would strike without warning.
That was when Paslov had headed for home. He’d had enough of ‘experts’ for one day.
But it still left him with many questions, and no answers. What was the symbol, and what, if anything, did it mean? Was it the sign of some
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