An excerpt from The Mischling

Introduction

At the heart of every lore lies a truth—often merely a grain, a scrap, an explanation forced upon the inexplicable by the uninformed. Sometimes, however, a legend’s birth is so monumental, so magnificent, that it sears itself into the collective consciousness of a people and echoes across ages—The Odyssey, Thermopylae, Camelot. But time is not kind to truth. All men are liars, and through malice or imperfection, as centuries pass, meaning is lost or misconstrued, and fact becomes fiction. Therefore, our search for truth—our quest—must look back before tales of clever symbologists or whip-wielding archaeologists, hellbent on unraveling the mystery of the Holy Grail, took center stage. Back even before power-hungry popes hurled the nobility of Europe against Islam in crushing Crusades searching for its whereabouts. We must return to a wedding feast in the Garden of Gethsemane when Christendom’s greatest relic was still nothing more than a humble silver chalice.

 

Prologue: Kristallnacht

“These measures are neither meanness nor extremism, but justice for our nation.” -Adolf Hitler, November 10, 1938

Had God been sleeping? 

It was the only explanation Sarah’s tortured mind could accept as the tram rolled into Berlin’s affluent district of Charlottenburg. She certainly hadn’t—not a wink—huddled by the radio all night beside her aunt and cousin praying for her parents’ safety. Somehow her mother had known the Nazis were going to unleash an orgy of violence against Jewish businesses and she’d made Sarah leave, along with the staff. She’d dialed home repeatedly—whenever she could get an operator—but every time the lines at the dress shop were dead.

At dawn, clutching a newspaper she’d grabbed at the ticket kiosk, she’d taken the very first tram into town. The headlines were horrifying—”Kristallnacht” Goebbels was calling it; a “Night of Broken Glass,” in retribution for a Polish Jew assassinating a Nazi in Paris. But on the tram, it was the ostracism that tied her stomach into knots. At twenty-two, she was tall and slender, with moody eyes and long raven hair—features that usually drew smiles, especially from men. But not today. Today, the Star of David hanging defiantly at her throat felt more like a target than a shield. No one made eye contact or offered her their seat. So, she stood in back, clinging to a strap with only the low rustle of newspapers and the pop and crackle of the overhead wires disturbing the humiliating silence of her fellow passengers.

When the heavy double-decker tram finally rumbled on to Kurfürstendamm, the elegant tree-lined boulevard at the heart of Charlottenburg, iron bands began tightening around her chest—everywhere she looked, shards of glass along the sidewalks sparkled like diamonds in the early morning light. 

As they approached her parent’s block, something far more foreboding demanded her attention. The barren winter branches of the trees she’d climbed as a child were filled with color—decorated with bolts of fabric like tinsel on a Christmas tree. And just ahead, mannequins, stripped of their expensive dresses, draped from the shattered windows of her parent’s storefront like fallen soldiers. 

“OPEN THE DOOR!” she shouted, banging her fists against the glass. “OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”

The stop was still two blocks away, but the conductor was glad to be rid of her; with a loud clank, he threw open the door. Like a pheasant flushed out of hiding, she jumped to the curb. 

“MOMMA? PAPA?” 

Again and again, she shouted for them as she threaded her way through the busted front entrance of their dress shop. 

Inside, the desecration was heartbreaking. The heavy glass cases were smashed and overturned, and anything of value had been carted away. The graceful metal racks where exquisite gowns once hung were piled in a mangled heap. 

“MOMMA?” she screamed as she charged up to the first-floor workrooms. 

The sense of violation made her shudder—she’d grown up here, working side-by-side with her parents until she went off to university. And then, when Hitler’s new laws barred her from the campus, she’d returned, determined to create the Weißmann fashion house.

She ran up to the next floor, the storeroom. It had been her playground as a child; a room flush with vibrant colors and bold patterns awaiting her mother’s genius for design. She threw open the door and her breath caught in her throat—just as she’d feared when she saw the gaily decorated trees, every bolt of fabric was gone. 

All that remained were the living spaces. 

She dashed up the stairs and grabbed the handle. A flicker of hope—it was locked. From inside, the haunting strains of her father’s favorite nocturne filtered through the stout oak door. She fumbled in her pocket for her key and flung open the door. A wave of relief washed over her—the elegant foyer was exactly as she’d left it. 

She rushed into the drawing room. “Momma?” 

Still no answer. “Papa?” 

She followed the moody music down the brightly-lit hallway, her pulse quickening. But the moment she stepped into their sitting room, the world tilted. A wave of dizziness washed over her and she grabbed her father’s wingback to keep from collapsing.

Across the room a square-faced brute in a jet-black uniform was holding a pistol aimed at her head. She’d interrupted him plundering through her mother’s jewelry box. The most cherished pieces, laid out like trinkets in a pawn shop, glittered on the table beside her father’s Victrola

“Ah Sarah, it’s you,” he said with mocking familiarity, as if they’d shared a class at university. He returned the Luger to its holster. “Please,” he said, motioning for her to join him. “I need a woman’s opinion. My sister’s birthday is next week.” 

It took three tries to find her voice. “Where are my parents?”

He ignored her and returned to appraising her mother’s jewelry. Finally, he selected a piece—her favorite, an exquisite ruby necklace trimmed with diamonds—and slipped it into his pocket, then he turned and stared at her with dark, malevolent eyes. “Well clearly, Fraülein, they’re not here.”

“What have you done with them?” she demanded in spite of the terror roaring inside her head.

“Technically, nothing,” he said snidely, “they were arrested by the Gestapo.” 

“Arrested … arrested for what?” The strangled words came haltingly. “They … own a dress shop.”

He laughed; a cackle that sent icy talons of fear clawing up her back. 

“They owned a dress shop.” 

All the air seemed to vanish from the room and pin pricks of light began pulsing all around her. 

“You see,” he added casually, pouring another shot from her father’s best bottle of schnapps, “as enemies of the state, all their assets have been seized by the Reich.”

She staggered over and fell heavily onto the Rococo love seat, but like a cobra, his hand shot out and grabbed a handful of her long black hair. She yelped like a puppy as he leveraged her up to eye level. He smelled of sweat and liquor, and his sleep-deprived brown eyes were badly bloodshot. “You should leave unless you want to join them at Dachau.” 

He let go and she crumpled onto the love seat.

“Schnell!”

She ran to her room, feeling like a ship whose anchor has come unmoored in a storm. Her suitcase was sitting in the middle of her bed next to her violin case. She grabbed it—it was shockingly heavy—and pulled it off the bed with a loud thump. A small envelope fell to the floor. She whirled around, expecting a trap, but the hallway was empty. She snatched it up, drowning in hurt. 

“Liebchen, I love you, heart and soul. God will watch over you … but you must never trust anyone with our family’s secret. Go to Simon, he’ll help you.”

In her mind’s eye, a crystal-clear image began to form—the sixth sense her mother was so keen to keep hidden. She closed her eyes and watched as her mother placed her suitcase on the bed and frantically scribbled the note while her father tried to bribe the SS officer. Tears welled up in her eyes. But Simon is in Paris? Her uncle had fled Germany many years ago, before the Nazis had completely sealed the borders—it felt impossible. 

She surveyed her room one last time, and from her bedside table, she grabbed her favorite photograph of her mother and grandmother. I’m sorry Momma—I know my duty. She rubbed away the tears, and clutching her suitcase and violin, she rushed to the foyer where she stopped and glared down the hallway to where Chopin was still playing. “You’ll pay for this,” she whispered, her voice trembling with rage, then she flung open the door and ran from the only life she’d ever known.

Part 1: Blitzkrieg

“Europe cannot find peace until the Jewish question has been solved.” -Adolf Hitler, January 30, 1939

– 1 –

Tyre, Lebanon

August 11, 1939

From the shade of his makeshift office, Sebastian removed his reading glasses and wiped the gritty sweat from his eyes. In the distance, a shirtless boy was racing recklessly across the jumbled, pockmarked landscape. Over the past four weeks, his gaggle of teenage tomb raiders from the University of Berlin had added three dozen new craters in amongst the ruins of Tyre’s 12th-century Cathedral. They’d come in search of a royal tomb—King Frederick Barbarossa, the leader of Germany’s First Reich—but so far all they had to show for their efforts were some medieval coins, a pile of pottery shards, and a stunning sliver of cobalt-blue glass. 

Someone yelled and the boy adjusted course, carving a bee-line for the dusty tarpaulin.

He rose to greet the boy, cursing the sweltering heat. How had he forgotten the misery of summer in the Levant—for his doctorate, he’d spent two full seasons with Herzfeld documenting the exquisite Roman aqueducts at Beit She’an in Palestine. Selective memory, he realized, grabbing his canteen, is as essential to archaeology as it is to having babies.

The youngster was drenched and panting. “Special Delivery for Monsieur Docteur Sebastian von Kessel.”

“Nice work, son. I bet you give ‘em hell on the pitch. Here, have some water.”

The boy drained the canteen while Sebastian dug a couple of coins out of his pocket. They traded and as he scampered off, Sebastian tore open the travel-worn envelope. The inner envelope was pristine, but there weren’t any markings.

“Curious,” he mumbled to himself.

“Oooo, I love surprises!”

He turned and met a pair of inquisitive green eyes.

“Must you always sneak up on me?”

“I was a cat in a previous life. Just open it!” 

Ingrid was the Graduate Assistant on this expedition—a glorified babysitter for the fourteen undergraduates doing all the digging. She’d been a last-minute addition (his first choice had broken his leg in a bike race), but he was glad she’d persuaded him to take her on. She was studying the Third Crusade for her doctorate, so her enthusiasm for this expedition—and the book he was writing about Richard the Lionheart—was infectious, and she was doing a masterful job of keeping the kids in line. 

He used his pocketknife to reveal a third envelope, “Oh my God!” she shrieked. “It’s your visa, I bet?”

“Bingo.” He showed her the distinctive markings of the British consulate, which elicited a little dance.

“Stop stirring up the dust,” he snapped letting his frustration shine through. He’d prayed the Brits would recognize what a tremendous security risk he was and quash his visa request. A prayer God had clearly ignored.

“Oh, come on.” She slapped his bicep. “Show a little excitement—I’d kill for the chance to do research in Jerusalem!”

She wasn’t lying.

He was.

In fact, this entire expedition—funded by his paternal grandfather Gustav, the scion of his family’s 300-year-old industrial empire—was all a giant charade. And she was clever enough to figure that out if he wasn’t careful.

“You’re right, it’s a golden opportunity,” he allowed with a smile, “and I wish I could take you with me.” 

Her aquiline eyes grew wide, and for an instant, an awkward silence hung between them.

Had he meant it that way? 

Maybe.

This time she slugged him. 

“Don’t tease me like that!” 

He winced playfully. “Ouch!”

Stephen Mann, the Field Director stepped under the shade of the dirty tarpaulin and set down a dusty collection box with N-7 stenciled on the side. 

“What are you two fighting about this time?” Stephen inquired as he removed his pith helmet. He grabbed the closest canteen and dumped it over his head. He had a slight build and wiry limbs, but he was rugged, and his organizational skills were top-notch. 

Ingrid, however, wasn’t a fan—she thought Mann’s Hitler Youth approach to managing her ‘kids’ was heavy-handed, to say the least. Sebastian had been running interference since before they arrived in country, and he was mildly concerned about leaving them alone now that his mission to Jerusalem was a ‘go.’

“We weren’t fighting,” Ingrid shot back, then turned sharply and charged off. 

Sebastian watched her go, her long blonde ponytail bobbing with every step. Yes, I definitely meant it that way, he decided. She wasn’t just smart, funny, and easy on the eyes, she possessed a unique quality—she liked him in spite of his family, not because of it.

Mann made a huffing sound as he sat down at his table and pulled over the box from the new shaft in the northern sector. “I used to wonder how she was still on the market.”

“My visa just arrived, so I’ll be headed to Jerusalem in the morning.” Sebastian held up the envelope with the British royal emblem, but Mann didn’t turn around. Like most of the faculty, Sebastian’s privileged life rubbed him the wrong way, even when it benefited him. “You still okay running the show while I’m away?” 

This time Mann spun around and glared at him. “I told you I was fine with it.”

“I’m sorry, Stephen, I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I appreciate you picking up the slack.”

Mann turned back to sifting dirt. “You’d do the same for me.”

True—and that was a good place to leave it.

– 2 –

Ras Naqoura, Lebanon

August 12, 1939

Sebastian left the Steyr 50 at the hotel, in case it was needed, and hired a car for the two-hour journey to the border crossing at Ras Naqoura. The Chevrolet, like its driver, was an older model and coughed and sputtered over every rise on the poorly maintained coastal road. The windows were open, but even here, within sight of the shimmering turquoise waters of the Mediterranean, the heat was still unbearable. 

Napping was out of the question, as was reading, so for the first hour, he stared out at the monotonous, parched landscape, interrupted on occasion by drab, impoverished villages and clusters of gnarled olive trees one might generously call an orchard. It was depressing, and the sudden appearance of a large flock of sheep barring the way did nothing to improve his mood. He wasn’t superstitious, but this felt like an ill omen.

“Can you please do something—I don’t want to miss my bus to Haifa.”

“Oui, Monsieur,” the old man mumbled sympathetically. The driver’s door protested with a loud screech as he climbed out and stood on the running board of the battered Chevrolet Master Deluxe. He blasted the young shepherd with a torrent of Arabic. 

Sebastian decided to stretch his legs—there was nothing more he could do about the sheep, or the special suitcase in the trunk. He watched the shepherd spur his collie into the herd with a sharp series of whistles and the simple-minded creatures immediately began to clear the road.

Am I a sheep?

Stephen Mann would strongly disagree, so too would the readers of the society pages in Berlin and Paris. But in the dimly lit salons where first names, Cuban cigars, and Napoleonic brandy were de rigueur, those people—Gustav, Himmler, and Heydrich—those people considered Sebastian von Kessel, twenty-nine-year-old heir apparent to Kessel Heavy Industries, nothing more than a pawn. They ask him a favor—use your French passport to secretly deliver some documents to Jerusalem—and off he goes.

He slid back into the rear of the Chevrolet as the driver slammed his squeaky door.

They’re wrong.

– 3 –

Inside the border control station, a mélange of people were clamoring to be processed. Amongst the queues were merchants wearing traditional Arab robes, Muslims on pilgrimage in their white ihram, various sects of Christians, and a handful of non-descript Westerners like himself. Conspicuous in their absence were Jews—a new British policy made it impossible for them to enter Palestine legally. 

As if that’ll stop the Zionists. 

Heavily armed soldiers were keeping watch over the proceedings, but after watching eight or nine people go through the process, his anxiety was quietly simmering on a back burner—all the agents’ focus was on the travel documents.

“Next please.”

The suitcase suddenly felt a lot heavier.

When Heydrich had delivered it to Villa Lichtenau, the von Kessel family estate in Essen, he’d promised the hidden compartment was impossible to detect. 

He was about to test that theory. 

With a confident smile, Sebastian stepped forward and set down his suitcase, his well-loved messenger bag, worn soft by years of travel, and his leather jacket. He proffered his tattered French passport and crisp new visa—both completely authentic.

The agent flipped open his passport and studied the vitals—6’2″, 230 pounds—then fixed a withering stare on Sebastian’s face. The photo was recent, but constant exposure to the harsh Mediterranean sun had lightened his thick blonde hair to the color of gold, and laziness had added a neatly trimmed beard to his typically cleanshaven Aryan features. 

“What is your final destination?”

“I apologize; I do not speak English.” A slow, well-rehearsed line that was absolutely true. “Parlez-vous français?”

The agent seamlessly shifted to French. “What is your final destination?”

Sebastian responded calmly, always maintaining eye contact. “The Palestine Archaeological Museum in Jerusalem.” This too was true, although it certainly wasn’t his primary destination.

“What is the purpose of your visit?”

Inside his head, mild panic began making its way to the front of the line.

“I’m an assistant professor at the University of Berlin, and I’m writing a book on Richard the Lionheart. I’m going to Jerusalem to do research.” 

I’m also couriering top secret messages from the Third Reich intended to foment a new Arab uprising in Palestine.

The agent stared silently at him, and the long, deep scar stretching across Sebastian’s high forehead began pulsing angrily as if the truth was scrolling across it like a newsreel.

“Where will you be staying during your visit?”

“The King David Hotel.”

The agent put aside his passport and shifted his attention to the visa. He clearly wasn’t a speed reader—or maybe it was a tactic. In the lull, Sebastian noticed a window, a one-way window, on the wall behind the agent. 

Without looking up, the agent asked, “Do you have a religious preference?”

“I am a Roman Catholic.”

“Are you carrying any restricted or controlled items, firearms, or currency in excess of £5,000?” the agent asked, and this time his keen eyes were boring a hole through Sebastian’s head.

“No.” 

His answer was crisp, his eye contact steady, but his palms were slick with sweat. He’d left his pistol back at the hotel and he felt naked without it. 

“Place the contents of your bag on the counter.”

First came his journal, its supple leather cover a testament to its years in the field, followed by his badly scuffed Zeiss binoculars that he never travelled without. A Leica 35mm camera, a canteen, and snacks completed the inventory.

“Put the suitcase on the counter and open it.”

Two months of preparation—and Sebastian’s chutzpah—were on the line.

He grabbed it off the floor and laid it on the counter, then he unzipped the flap and cavalierly flipped it back—Nothing to see here.

With a blank expression, the agent’s bony hands raced around the inside of the Gestapo-designed suitcase, then he did the same thing on the outside. Finally, he focused his attention on the bottom, running his hands underneath Sebastian’s neatly folded clothes. 

“Close it.”

Sebastian’s confidence soared—this was a piece of cake—but then the door beside the large window opened and a serious looking man walked over to the agent. 

After a brief huddled conversation, the man disappeared with Sebastian’s passport and visa, and the lizard portion of his brain began screaming at him to leave the suitcase and run.

“Monsieur Docteur von Kessel, you will follow Sergeant Tibbs to Room C.”

It wasn’t an invitation. 

He’d never been interrogated, but Room C certainly fit the bill—drab grey walls, small metal table with a beat-up ashtray, and two uncomfortable wooden chairs. The only window—a narrow transom above the door—left the fetid air with little chance of escape. 

Fifteen minutes had passed, and his linen shirt was sopping wet when a different, serious-looking man in a wilted suit strolled in and sat down. His neat gray crew cut, and pale grey eyes, perfectly suited the room. “My name is Mark Hampstead,” he said in heavily accented French, “I’m the facility supervisor.”

Sebastian’s heart was racing. “Mr. Hampstead, if I miss my train in Haifa, I’ll lose an entire day of research.”

“Well then, Herr Doktor, I suggest you be as cooperative as possible.” Hampstead’s German was excellent, but Sebastian didn’t flinch—Kurt, his brother, had prepped him well. 

“I’m a dual citizen; that’s not a crime.”

“No, it’s not, but stirring up trouble in a protectorate of the British Empire is.”

“Then we have nothing more to discuss—I’m going to Jerusalem to do research for my book, that’s all.” How good was this man? Could he smell a lie? 

“And what are you hoping to find?”

“It’s unclear if Richard the Lionheart ever set foot in Jerusalem—I plan to clear that up.”

“You picked a very peculiar time to do research, or maybe Kessel Heavy Industries isn’t worried about one of its directors being trapped on foreign soil when the shooting starts.”

“Mr. Hampstead, I’m an archaeologist, not a spy.”

“We’ll see about that,” he said, with a smirk that made Sebastian’s stomach lurch like he’d missed a step getting off the train. He grabbed the suitcase. “Mind if I have a look?”

Sebastian waved him on. “Whatever will speed this along.”

Unlike the agent, Hampstead removed everything—clothes, shoe bags, notebooks, and toiletries—then he examined every millimeter of the hand-tooled leather. Sebastian took long, deep breaths like he’d been taught.

“It’s surprisingly heavy, don’t you think?” Hamstead said, lifting it up and bobbing it like he was weighing a melon at a fruit stand.

It wasn’t—there were only a few sheets of paper sandwiched between the leather—he was fishing, that’s all. But inside Sebastian’s head, panic pushed and shoved its way to the front of the line. “I’m living out of a tent; rugged seemed like the way to go,” he snapped sarcastically. 

Hampstead’s eyes flared—he’d hit paydirt, and he knew it—but a sharp knock at the door interrupted him. “Hold that thought,” he said with a grin as he stepped out of the room. 

Thirty seconds later he was back, and he’d left the smirk outside.

“London seems to think you’re harmless as a kitten, but I think you’re lying,” he snarled, leaning over the table close enough that Sebastian could smell the sardines he’d had for lunch. “We’re going to watch you like a hawk, and if anything at all happens while you’re here, you’ll be the first person we arrest.”

He stormed out and slammed the door.

Chief-of-Station Hampstead was simmering as he charged back to his small office—he’d lost his father to a U-boat in the Great War, an unterseeboot built by the von Kessels. 

This man is the enemy.

He dropped into his chair and snatched up the phone—he still had one card to play. He gave the operator the number and waited, drumming his fingers on the cracked linoleum desktop. Finally, a young man answered.

“Mr. Hampstead, this is unexpected?” Jacob, his new son-in-law, asked with genuine concern.

“Sebastian von Kessel will be in Jerusalem for the next four days—I thought you might want to know.”

The only sound on the line was a soft hiss. He knew he’d overstepped, but sometimes you had to be willing to color outside the lines. 

“Jacob, are you there?”

“I’ll let Alice know you called; she’s excited to show you the kibbutz.” There was a tightness in his voice that carried easily over the poor connection. 

“Give her my love,” he said, and killed the line.

– 4 –

Haifa, Mandatory Palestine

August 16, 1939

Sebastian rolled the icy highball glass across his forehead, refusing to let the first-class compartment’s stifling heat dampen his mood. He’d made good use of his short time in Jerusalem—he’d visited the Garden of Gethsemane and the Holy Sepulcher—and he was heading back to Lebanon with pages and pages of notes for his book. And so far, his covert courier duties were going precisely as planned. 

In Jerusalem, while he was busy pouring over ancient texts at the museum, a porter on the Grand Mufti’s payroll slipped into his room and exchanged suitcases, then two days later, his monogrammed suitcase had magically reappeared while he was enjoying breakfast, presumably with der Führer’s answer sewn inside.

“Monsieur Docteur, you haven’t stopped smiling since we left the station. Do you have a particular affinity for olive trees?”

The American woman sharing his compartment was proving to be a delightful travelling companion. She was fluent in French and didn’t seem the least bit wilted by the sunbaked air being batted about quite uselessly by their compartment’s fans.

“Why yes, Mrs. Johnston, I’m a closet botanist, but please don’t sell me out to the paparazzi.”

Her soft laughter reminded him of Ingrid, as had so many other little moments on this trip. 

“Your secret is safe with me,” she whispered, but then with a raised eyebrow, she pondered aloud, “Although, I’m curious, what’s the going rate for juicy gossip these days?”

He rolled his eyes and flashed her a smirk; they both laughed.

“Actually, I’ve been picturing my colleague’s face when I return to Paris next month—he’s going to be overjoyed with something I stumbled upon in Jerusalem.”

“Oh, do tell! Is it some kind of treasure?”

“Just a boring bit of history, I’m afraid, but archaeologists are easily amused.” 

Even in a setting like this he found it hard to be truthful about the Templars—afraid his passion for the brotherhood of medieval knights would tarnish is reputation as a serious archaeologist and ruin his chance at a full professorship. 

“Look mother!” The woman’s young son suddenly plastered his face against the glass. “Camels!”

“What kind of camel?” 

Her question sent him flipping through his dogeared picture book. “Dromedary camels have a single hump, and coarse brown fur,” he read slowly, in English, which Sebastian struggled to follow. 

She rustled his thick black hair and kissed the top of his head. It was a common show of affection between a parent and child, but it sent Sebastian mindlessly reaching for the scar on his forehead. He turned and stared out the window as a flood of memories washed over him.

What he remembered most from that cold Parisian day were the smiles. 

For the past five years, depravations and death tolls had robbed the world of joy, even in the heart of Paris where he’d rode out the war with his mother Madeliene, her younger sister, Genevieve, his cousin Robert, Genevieve’s son, and Gabby, their governess and caretaker. But now, with the armistice emptying the trenches and Christmas just a few days away, the Gare de l’Est train station was bristling with jubilant reunions, and they were going home to newly-liberated Metz. It was a home he couldn’t remember, but as a precocious eight-year-old, he understood his place in society—his mother never let him forget that he was the firstborn son of not one, but two great families. 

In France, the de Mare name had been synonymous with steel and power for two centuries, but the fragility of borders had hampered the family’s fortunes. Metz, the crown jewel of resource-rich Lorraine, had been annexed and ripped away in 1871; its French soul suppressed by the newly unified German Empire. A few decades later, Gustav von Kessel saw an opportunity to expand his own burgeoning empire and wed his only son, Albrecht, to the beautiful young Madeliene de Mare. 

His parent’s marriage had been the industrial equivalent of a royal wedding designed to cement a treaty between two contentious kingdoms. Both families benefited tremendously from the alliance; his mother, however, hated Essen, and when she learned she was pregnant, she insisted on returning home to her family’s grand château in Metz. But when the storm clouds of war began to gather, his maternal grandfather dispatched his two daughters—and his precious grandsons—to the safety of Paris.

Now they were returning home, but even from a plush private compartment, the first train to Metz was an arduous journey punctuated by hours of idling on side-tracks watching military transports rolling west. As they neared the frontier—that line of demarcation between France and Germany for which so many had died—a hushed silence filled the compartment. His mother clung to him as the scene outside the window gradually transformed into the Hellish no-man’s-land of newsreels and nightmares. As they ground to a stop at the border, he pressed his face against the cold glass and watched the endless stream of bedraggled refuges pulling carts piled high with their meager belongings down the muddy road.

Long after the rhythmic sway of the carriage had put the horrors behind them, he lay down for a nap with his head in his mother’s lap. She was stroking his hair and humming a lullaby, when his childhood abruptly ended. 

With a tremendous boom and a blinding flash, the front of their car dove off a cliff, followed instantly by a wicked shockwave that sent giant shards of glass slicing through the air. The shriek of straining steel and twisting metal from the trestle collapsing below them seemed to magnify the terrified screams. For the blink of an eye, he was in the air, floating, weightless as the heavy carriage plummeted into the ravine, but then as the front of the car began to crumple and compress, he was hurled like a javelin into the forward bulkhead. Behind him, their heavy trunks blasted through the flimsy luggage restraints and shot forward like battering rams, crushing everything in their path. And then it was over, and in the sudden stillness, the screams of the living echoed like banshees in the bowels of the—

“Monsieur Docteur?” 

A white-glove was resting lightly on his deeply tanned hand.

“Monsieur Docteur, are you alright?”

Their eyes met, and her sweet concern reminded him of Ingrid. “Just remembering Maman; her birthday is next week, and I miss her.”

She smiled and squeezed his arm. “I’m sure she misses you too.”

“Look mother, the sea!”

The overhead lights blinked three times—they were arriving in Haifa.

– 5 –

“Thank you,” Sebastian said, then kissed Mrs. Johnston’s hand, “you and your son were delightful companions.” He was getting out of the taxi they’d decided to share at the train station. He handed the driver twice the fare to their destination, a cruise ship docked in the harbor, and patted his shoulder appreciatively, then he followed him to the trunk where a porter was already waiting with a two-wheeled dolly. 

Waiting to collect his luggage, Sebastian had no idea his head was centered in the cross-hairs of a Lee-Enfield (T) sniper rifle.

Across the street, the young man staring through the scope was absolutely miserable; he blinked repeatedly, trying to clear the sweat burning his eye. He’d volunteered for this assignment—a Nazi industrialist with no security was simply too valuable to ignore—but his cell of the Haganah normally spent weeks planning a mission, not a couple of days. 

He’d arrived in darkness so no one would see him as he made his way up to the roof. In the cool, pre-dawn stillness, he’d set up a simple blind using a black tarpaulin (to match the tar of the roof) with line-of-sight to the bus station through two bricks he’d removed from the downspout. 

As the hours passed the temperature soared, and the acrid smell of melting tar clotted his nose and burned his eyes. He’d lugged up four canteens in his pack, each tinctured with pickle juice, and he’d drained them all, but still his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. And he didn’t need to check his pulse to know his heart was racing, valiantly trying to cool the blood it was pumping into his muddled brain. 

A bodyguard would have you inside already.

He slipped his finger over the trigger and blinked, then he blinked again, but his double-vision refused to clear. He was panting, and when he tried to swallow, his tongue refused the request. A wave of muscular tremors raced down his arm and made the German’s head dance drunkenly inside his scope. 

It had to be now.

The driver had just closed the trunk when Sebastian felt a hammer-like blow to his skull, just above his left eye, followed almost instantly by the sharp crack of a high-powered rifle. Behind him, a plate glass window shattered into a spray of jagged shards. Pain exploded in his head as his knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the sidewalk. The suitcase broke his fall, cushioning the impact. Instinct took over—he banged on the side of the taxi, desperate to get them out of the line of fire.

“Go! Get out of here!”

The startled driver jumped in and went screaming off in a cloud of burnt rubber and dust leaving Sebastian completely exposed. 

From across the street, the young man cursed. This was a one-shot mission; his escape plan demanded it, but he was here to even a score. With a trembling hand, he grabbed the bolt, chambered another .303 round, and peered through his scope.

Sebastian wasn’t thinking clearly—his thoughts were running into each other like penned-up sheep fleeing a hungry wolf. He fought his way to his knees, holding out his hand for help, but the porter and the knot of people that had been clogging the sidewalk had completely melted away. He fainted and collapsed onto the suitcase—a perfect target.

The sniper took a deep breath and held it—the Nazi’s bloody face was precisely centered in his cross-hairs. He slowly pulled on the trigger.

 At 744 meters per second, the .303 round covered the distance in the blink of an eye—but it wasn’t the sniper’s bullet. It’d come from the British sergeant in the sandbagged guard post at the entrance to the bus station. He’d seen Sebastian go down, and watched the window disintegrate so he knew right where to look. And when he saw movement on the roof—he fired, then fired again before sending his men racing across the street.

***

On the way to the hospital, Sebastian clawed his way back to consciousness. His left eye refused to focus, and the squall of the high-pitched siren only added to the agony raging inside his head, but he was alive. “My … suit … case?”

The medic smiled—a cogent question was a really good sign. “Don’t worry, we’ve got it, and your messenger bag too.”

“Tell … Ingrid … I’m … fine.”

“Tell her yourself mate,” he said with a reassuring squeeze on Sebestian’s shoulder, “just a little crease, you’ll be better than fine in a jiff.”

– 6 –

Tyre, Lebanon

August 19, 1939

Three days later, when Sebastian finally reached the checkpoint at Ras Naqoura, Ingrid was waiting, and for the first time, she looked more like a socialite than a field hand. She’d traded her high-waisted jodhpurs for a pale-blue sundress that perfectly accentuated her deeply bronzed skin. Gone too was the perpetual ponytail, freeing her long blonde hair to spill alluringly over her bare shoulders.

He’d only made it a few wobbly paces when she raced over and practically jumped into his arms. “I’m so glad to see you.”

Struggling to keep his balance, he dropped his suitcase and wrapped her in his arms. He loved the feel of her pressed snugly against his broad chest, and her scent—a mix of sweat and lavender shampoo—was so refreshingly familiar. This was exactly the way he’d imagined (fantasized about?) their reunion while he’d been laid up in Haifa. The bullet that grazed his skull had given him a concussion, necessitating two days of bedrest. A parade of police had descended on the hospital, and three different embassies had gotten involved, but the assassin—a known member of the Haganah—was dead, so as soon as his doctor released him, the Brits were all too happy to be rid of him.

When Ingrid finally pulled away, her beautiful green eyes were glistening, and her makeup was marred by joyful tears. 

“If I’d known I’d get this kind of treatment, I’d have gotten myself shot weeks ago.”

She instinctively slapped his bicep but instantly regretted it. “Oh, I’m sorry!”

He laughed, leaning on her for stability. “Fortunately, I got shot in the head, not the arm.”

“Does it still hurt?” 

“Hard to say given the drugs I’m taking, but one thing’s for certain—I’m barely fit to walk, much less drive.”

She slipped her arm around his waist with a warm pearly smile, “Ingrid Bergstrom at your service, monsieur.”

They strolled like slightly drunken lovers to where she’d parked the Steyr and he tossed his luggage in the backseat as she climbed in behind the big steering wheel.

For the first thirty miles, all they talked about was Jerusalem—she was excited to read all his notes about Richard and the Third Crusade—but then she worked up the courage to ask him about Haifa. He was a natural-born storyteller, so she was barely breathing by the time Sergeant Hobbson’s perfectly placed shot caused the assassin’s second bullet to punch a hole in his suitcase and not his head. She reached over and clutched his hand possessively. “Oh my God! I still can’t believe someone tried to kill you.” 

In spite of the heat, he felt the hot flush of desire. Here in the sanctuary of the Steyr, far away from the prying eyes of students and staff, he was free to admire her silhouette against the soft azure of the cloudless sky. He turned his hand over, allowing their fingers to intertwine and a shiver of gooseflesh raced up her arms and her answering smile held a hint of delight.

“In hindsight,” he said, trying to stay focused, “it seems all-too predictable that a Zionist sniper would try to take out a high-profile Nazi on their home turf.”

“Well, thank God he missed … and I rarely think of you as a Nazi.”

“My grandfather would be disappointed to hear you say that?” And so was he; she’d meant that as a compliment, but it triggered a rush of anxiety.

“How often do you wear a swastika?” she countered.

“Blood red just isn’t my color.”

 “And the way you sneer when Goebbels rants about the Jewish Problem.”

“Everyone knows it was the Bolsheviks that torched the Reichstag.”

“And you haven’t missed Mass a single time since we’ve been here.”

She was three for three—he had to be more careful.

“You’re right—my brother is the Nazi zealot in the family.”

“As I recall, he’s Gruppenführer Heydrich’s aid-de-camp?”

“Yes, and I’m led to believe he’s exceptionally good at what he does.”

“Well, I appreciate that you have a more nuanced perspective.”

He lifted her hand up and brushed it against his cheek, then he kissed it, savoring the delicious surge of delight that it sent coursing through his system. “And I appreciate you coming to pick me up, Fräulein Bergstrom.” Her cheeks blossomed a lovely shade of pink. “But enough about me, I want to hear more about you?”

For the rest of the drive, they talked about their families, his more than hers not surprisingly since the von Kessels were a household name in Germany, and then there was his mother’s family in France that she knew nothing about. 

The sun was setting when they pulled into Tyre. “I’m starved, let’s get dinner before we go back to the hotel,” he suggested.

“Doktor Mann will be worried.”

“When we stop at the Western Union, I’ll send a messenger to let him know I’ve abducted you.”

She smiled and squeezed his hand. “Our first date, monsieur?”

He couldn’t contain his grin. “Oui mademoiselle, our first date.”

They found a cozy café with a terrace that looked out over the harbor with the freshest of seafood and a decent wine list, although he barely noticed. After dessert, they carried the rest of the wine down to the water’s edge and sat hip-to-hip on the ancient stone steps. They laughed and talked until the stars were brilliant little diamonds blanketing the sky. When it was time to resume their real life, he paused in the shadow of the seawall and pulled her close. “I’ve been wanting to do this since the first time you walked into my office,” he confessed as his lips brushed hers and his hand slipped possessively around her neck. It was a long, intimate kiss, that made her shiver.

 During the short drive to their hotel, he cradled her hand in his lap, quietly savoring their last few minutes of privacy, but when she turned off the car, he refused to let go and waited for their eyes to meet. “I’m a light sleeper.” For a moment, she just sat there, and he feared he’d gone too far, then with an excited little smirk, she squeezed his hand. “Don’t lock your door.” 

– 7 –

Tyre, Lebanon

August 22, 1939

The next few days passed in a blur, and for Sebastian, they were the happiest in recent memory. While he’d been off playing secret agent in Jerusalem, his intrepid band of students had struck gold—an undisturbed medieval tomb. It was only a knight, not the royal tomb they were hoping for, but it was a significant find—the shield was magnificent—and the energy it unleashed in the kids was incredible. Fortunately, that energy kept them so preoccupied that even Margrethe, with her coke-bottle glasses, failed to notice the rapturous smiles he and Ingrid exchanged whenever they were near one another.

It was midday and Ingrid had declared it a ‘red flag’ day, so most of the students had retreated to the relative cool of the hotel pool two blocks away. He and David were carefully inventorying the contents of the ‘Plank Tomb,’ named for the lucky student who’d discovered it.

“You look beat,” David volunteered, “is the head bothering you? It sounded like you were having a nightmare last night.”

Sebastian tried to hide his surprise; he’d clamped his hand over Ingrid’s mouth, but not hard enough it seemed. “I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t wake you.”

David blew the dust off a heavy gold ring. “It’s okay, I was headed to the bathroom.” He held it up to the sunlight and the large ruby glowed magnificently in the intense light. “I’d never thought about the risk you face, just because of your name. Maybe a little extra security would be a good idea?”

He’d already had this argument with his grandfather—and Aunt Geneviève. He hated having security guards interjecting themselves into his personal life, so he rarely ever used them. He preferred fending for himself—his Walther PPK was always nearby. The four locals securing the excavation site at night was more than enough. He was about to say that when he was interrupted by the clatter of a bicycle shooting down the hill in a cloud of dust. The teen boy was melting in the midday heat, his uniform shirt molded to his slender frame, but it wasn’t slowing him down. He skidded to a stop, jumped off the bike, and leaned it against the remains of a column. As he ran towards them, he withdrew a small clipboard from his badly scuffed satchel.

“Telegram for Monsieur Docteur Sebastian von Kessel,” he announced breathlessly holding up a small striped envelop with PRIORITY printed across it in bold red letters. 

Sebastian raised his hand, and the boy dashed over with the telegram and clipboard. 

“I bet that’s from the University,” David crowed.

Sebastian scrawled his name across the receipt, then fumbled in his pocket for some change.

“I hope you’re right.” He tore off the end and pulled out a stiff card with strips of teletype glued haphazardly across its face. 

BT

CRITICAL YOU DEPART ASAP STOP MUST ARRIVE AT FRIENDS HOUSE FOR YOUR MOTHERS BIRTHDAY PARTY STOP NLT YOUR MOTHERS BIRTHDAY STOP AK

BT

There was no doubting its authenticity—the originating station was Essen, and his father’s compulsive habit of flaunting his wealth by repeating himself took care of the rest. And its intent was crystal clear—get out of Lebanon. 

But why? What’s he trying to tell me?

He handed it to David and watched the storm beginning to brew as he tried to make some sense of it.

“We can’t leave! Who is this from?” 

“My father, Albrecht.”

“So, he means, you, right? Not all of us?”

“What’s going on?”

He hadn’t noticed Ingrid approaching.

“This doesn’t concern you,” David barked and dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Sebastian fired back. “She has a right to know.” He snatched the telegram out of David’s hand and handed it to Ingrid. She skimmed it and handed it back.

“But your mother is dead.” 

“WHAT?” David’s voice was an octave too high. “How do you know that?”

She ignored him and focused on Sebastian. “It’s a code, isn’t it? Something bad is about to happen. How long do we have?”

Sebastian nodded—she’d hit the nail on the head—the timeline for the next step in reshaping the map of Europe must be imminent. “Her birthday is September 1^st.” 

“This is madness! Is this why the Jews tried to kill you?”

Was it?

It suddenly made perfect sense. Hitler’s next move was targeting Britian’s empire; that’s why his mission to Jerusalem was so important. He looked down at the telegram. 

Did Himmler warn my father to save me … or my suitcase?

It didn’t matter. He turned on David like a feral dog. “If my father wants us away from Palestine, he has a damn good reason, and you’re going to make that happen. Do you understand me?” He’d punctuated the last four words with a jab of his finger on David’s chest.

David’s eyes were burning a hole through Sebastian’s head, but the danger was beginning to seep in. “What about the sarcophagus?”

“We’re tomb raiders, remember—box it up, we’re taking it with us. And Ingrid, go tell the students today is our last day—photograph everything so we’ll know where to pick back up next year.”

She started to ask a question, then thought better of it.

He stuffed the telegram into his pocket and pushed his way past David. “I’ll be at the hotel; I’ve got a lot of calls to make.”

– 8 –

Naples, Italy

August 27, 1939

Booking passage out of Beirut for a crowd on short notice should’ve been impossible. But being a board member of Europe’s largest industrial conglomerate granted Sebastian certain privileges. 

When their cruise ship made port in Naples, a small, hard-faced woman with a metal clipboard was waiting for him as soon as his entourage cleared customs. “Herr Doktor von Kessel, I’m Maria Mastroianni.” Her grip was firm, and her accent decidedly Italian. “I’ve made all the arrangements to connect your party with a train leaving for Rome at 2:45 where you’ll spend the night before heading north. If you’ll follow me, I have some paperwork I need you to sign.” 

He trailed her to a room marked PRIVATE where she stopped and looked both directions before ushering him in. Her caution made sense—a square-jawed bruiser in an SS uniform was waiting inside.

“Brother!”

“Kurt!” 

Wearing a wide, friendly grin, his half-brother strode over and wrapped him in a bear hug. “And father thought I was the hardheaded one,” he chided while each of them tried to impress the other with their strength. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Sebastian said, shoving him to arm’s length, “but what the hell are you doing here?”

“The Abwehr’s Middle East desk got wind of your mission, so the Reichsführer needs what you’re carrying in Berlin by morning.” He motioned to Signora Mastroianni. “And I wanted to check on you—two birds, one stone.”  

“Herr Doktor, allow me,” she said taking his suitcase and setting it on the table. 

Sebastian reached over and stuck his finger into the ragged hole—a hole that was meant for his head. The realization made him shudder. Kurt grabbed his shoulder and squeezed. “They missed—that’s the important thing.” He reached up and gently moved aside Sebastian’s hair. “How many stitches?”

Mastroianni opened his case and got to work removing the contents. 

“Seventy-five, if I remember—”

A playful smirk suddenly brightened his little brother’s face. Kurt reached over Mastroianni and plucked a pair of pink panties from the pile of clothes. “A souvenir of Beirut’s nightlife?”

Sebastian snatched them away and stuffed them in his pocket with a mix of indignation and bravado. “You’re really going to like her.”

Kurt’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, she’s with you! What’s her name?” 

“Ingrid Bergstrom, but you can’t meet her yet.”

A salacious grin crept across Kurt’s face. “You DOG!”

Sebastian shoved him hard enough to throw him off-balance. “It’s not what you’re thinking! She’s twenty-six.”

Mastroianni took a knife from her purse and used the small blade to slice open the long inner seam of the silk lining. She pulled out an A4-sized envelope, handed it to Kurt, then got to work replacing the contents his suitcase. She zipped it up and strode to the door carrying it. “We don’t have much time, Herr Doktor, please hurry.” 

The second the door clicked shut, Sebastian shifted gears. “Why’d father pull me out? Is this related to that new treaty with the Soviets? Is Hitler about to punch somebody in the face?”

Kurt’s expression darkened. “We pulled you out—”

“We?” 

“The Reichsführer made the decision; but he wasn’t at liberty to share the target or the timetable for offensive operations, which led to father’s cryptic telegram.”

Sebastian’s stomach tightened. “But ‘offensive operations’ are coming?” 

Kurt nodded. “Yeah. Within weeks, maybe days. The Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe went on full alert yesterday.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply and squeezed his temples; his battered head throbbed with every beat of his heart. “I can’t believe Hitler crawled into bed with a Communist—let’s find a bottle of whiskey and a handful of aspirin.”

“Tempting,” Kurt said, “but my plane is waiting.” He grabbed the suitcase and jabbed a stubby finger into the bullet hole. “You may not realize it, but the Haganah did you a favor.”

“They tried to kill me!”

“Exactly,” Kurt said coolly. “And they wouldn’t do that to one of their own.”

Neither moved. Neither blinked. The silence was suffocating, a weight pressing on Sebastian’s chest.

“What are you insinuating?”

Kurt adjusted his cuff, his tone casual. “The Gruppenführer has been asking questions about the Louvre.”

Don’t look away. Don’t touch your face. Breathe—deep, steady.

“He’s a colleague.”

“He’s a Jew.”

“Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive!”

“Yes, they are,” Kurt shot back. “You’re a von Kessel.”

The conversation was slipping from his control. It was time to go. “Well then, thank God for the Haganah and their inept snipers.”

He grabbed the doorknob and flung the door open with a bang. Signora Mastroianni jumped, clutching her clipboard.

“There’s been a slight change of plans, Signora.” He turned to his brother. “I’m going to Paris and check on Gabby—while I still can.”

– 9 –

Marseille, France

September 1, 1939

From the Océan Bleu’s quarterdeck, Sebastian leaned on the railing and trained his binoculars on the sleek French warship charging menacingly around the stern of the small coastal freighter. Shiny bands of ammunition hung from the heavy-caliber machine guns flanking the bridge where officers were carefully scrutinizing the freighter through their own binoculars.

Before he’d boarded in Naples, he’d slipped a note to Ingrid apologizing for abandoning her, then he’d telegrammed Gabby in Paris. 

Madame Gabrielle—Gabby to almost everyone—was priceless: petite and soft spoken, but feisty as a tomcat and fiercely protective of Sebastian and his Parisian paradise. Although she’d been born and raised in the city’s 4^tharrondissement, she’d married a minor functionary at the German embassy. His father often invited her and her husband to ‘German’ holiday parties as a thank you to Johann for handling Kessel Stahl’s business dealings in France. In 1907, she’d given birth to a son, but just a few years later, she’d lost them both in a tragic fire at her in-law’s lake house in Bavaria. Heartbroken, she’d jumped at Madame von Kessel’s offer to flee their ghosts. She’d given up her position as sous chef in the prestigious George V hotel, sold her apartment to her sister, and taken refuge on Île Saint-Louis as chef and caretaker. As far as Sebastian was concerned, she was family.

The captain of the French patrol boat had seen enough, but knowing the elder von Kessels would pepper him with questions about this close encounter, Sebastian kept his binoculars focused on the graceful warship as the throaty rumble of her twin diesels roared across the waves. Germaniawerft, his family’s massive shipyard in Keil, hadn’t produced torpedo boats since 1913, but with war looming—and his father’s cozy relationship with Himmler—a flood of contracts was inevitable.

As the Océan Bleu groaned against the dock, thick ropes snaked out from the mooring crew while stevedores shouted orders over the din of the port. Sebastian watched from the railing as the boatswain and his deckhands wrestled the gangplank into place, locking it down with practiced efficiency.

I have every right to be here. But the sight of the Harbormaster with four gendarmes and a handful of customs inspectors sent a tight knot coiling in his stomach. Unless Hitler’s already pulled the trigger.

“Monsieur Docteur von Kessel, is that right?” The customs agent’s voice was low and gravely, which perfectly suited his coarse demeanor. He was thumbing through Sebastian’s French passport, studying the stamps.

“Oui monsieur, I’m returning to my home in Paris.” He gave his address—the building he’d inherited from his mother—and the man wrote it down on his form.

“Curious way to get home Herr Doktor von Kessel?” It was the Harbormaster, a grizzled gray-haired man with sharp eyes who was naturally suspicious. And a wealthy passenger—a Nazi, no less—bunking with the crew of a commercial freighter had triggered his alarm bells.

“Agreed, but my family built this vessel, and when I reached out to the owner and explained the situation … well, here I am.”

“What situation?” 

He’d already explained it to the customs agent—they were circling back, trying to trip him up, but they hadn’t arrested him. “The expedition made a major find in Tyre, so I stayed an extra day thinking I could still make my meeting at the Louvre, but the trains are all clotted up.” At this point, it seemed natural to ask: “I haven’t seen a paper in two days—any big news?”

It was the Harbormaster that answered. “Last night the Poles conveniently attacked a German radio station and destroyed the tower.”

Poland? Surely not—they have a treaty with Britian and France.

The inquisition lasted another fifteen minutes—then they went through his trunk, his suitcase, and his messenger bag with a fine-tooth comb. When they were satisfied, the customs agent stamped his passport, but he knew as soon as they got back to their office, they’d alert Paris. “Welcome home, Herr Doktor. You can ride with us to the front gate if you’d like.”

An hour later, he popped out of the limo in front of the Gare de Marseille-Saint-Charles and held up a five-franc note. “Plate-forme cinq s’il vous plaît,” he said to the prompt Moroccan porter, then he headed for the queue at the Western Union kiosk. He picked up a copy of Le Temps and scanned the front page. The headlines screamed of ultimatums and diplomatic failures, but the air around him—hurried travelers, the scent of strong coffee, the clatter of departing trains—felt deceptively normal.

When it was his turn, he tore a sheet off the pad and unscrewed his Waterman. Out of habit, his cramped handwriting was deliberately cryptic; always mindful of his reputation as a ‘serious’ archaeologist.

BT

LEAVING MARSEILLE STOP EXCITING KT CLUE ARAB SOURCE JERUSALEM STOP ILE SAINT LOUIS 8PM

BT

He pushed it through to the clerk, paid his fee, then headed off in search of his plush first-class berth to Paris.

He dozed for the first two hours, but the morning’s events still churned in his mind. When the train slammed on its brakes, the harsh shriek of steel-on-steel sent him spiraling back to the Baltic—to a dying submarine.

1929. He had been an intern at Germaniawerft, assigned to the newly launched U-36 for its sea trials. On their second crash-dive, a valve jammed, sending hundreds of gallons of seawater gushing into the ballast tanks. The dive planes screamed under the strain as crewmen fought to lift the bow before the submarine plowed into the seafloor.

It hit. 

Hard.

Five agonizing hours of absolute darkness, the hull groaning and popping around them as engineers scrambled to free the valve. When it finally slammed shut—with a sickening shriek and a shudder that rattled his bones—Sebastian’s bladder emptied down the leg of his coveralls.

Back in port, still reeking of sweat and urine, he sent his father a terse telegram. He was done with Engineering; his future was the past. He was going to study Archaeology.

The flash of panic lasted only seconds, but he awoke trembling and bathed in a cold sweat. He jabbed the steward’s button—a Jameson would calm his jangled nerves. He tried instead to focus on the telegraph he’d sent to Paris. He was certain it would reel in Professor Weißmann as surely as a bleating goat in a tiger trap.

Simon was a slave to his work, often remaining cloistered away in his office at the Louvre until the wee hours of the morning, but their private code, ‘KT,’ would prove irresistible. The pseudo-mythical Knights Templar were Simon Weißmann’s raison d’être. 

– 10 –

Paris, France

September 1, 1939

As the train trundled into Paris, Sebastian sensed the change immediately. Even from a moving carriage, the city was alive with nervous energy. The closer they drew to the center, the more the streets swarmed with horse-drawn wagons brimming with soldiers mustering for deployment. By the time a shrill whistle signaled their arrival at Gare de Lyon, he was certain he should’ve led his little flock back to Berlin.

A wiry newsboy darted through the maze of bodies waving a special edition above his head.

WAR!

The single, blood-red word screamed from the page in eight-inch letters, and from the frenzied crowd, one might be forgiven for thinking the Wehrmacht was already at the city gates. 

Despite all the commotion, Sebastian noticed her the moment the conductor slid back the door. She was striking—tall and slender, with long raven hair—and her dark, exotic eyes fixed on him with unsettling intensity. After a lingering look, her face softened, and she waved as if greeting an old friend. But Sebastian was certain—they’d never met. 

“Professor, over here!” she shouted, then nodded towards two uniformed gendarmes standing just a few paces away. They were huge men. Short haircuts. Thick necks. They were holding 8×10 glossies.

“Professor, hurry!” She held up a hand-printed sign with ‘Simon Weißmann’ scrawled across it. “Our taxi is waiting!”

Sebastian felt the hawklike stare of the gendarmes sweep across his face and stop. They looked at her, then at the name on the card, then back at Sebastian for one brief moment before shifting their attention to the flood of panicked passengers spilling around him like a rock in a stream.

Feeling like a bug under a magnifying glass, he climbed down and forged his way through the anxious crowd until he reached the young woman. “Mademoiselle, I’m deeply grateful; but I’m afraid you’ve confused me with someone else, my—”

“I know who you are,” she snapped, “and unless you’re eager to spend the rest of the war in a prison camp, Professor, I suggest we get the hell out of here.”

Without another word, he whipped out some cash and flagged down a porter, but as they charged out of the station’s grand front entrance, he suddenly connected the dots. “You’re Gestapo, right?”

With a feral intensity, his mysterious savior whirled and slapped his face. The sound alone was enough to make everyone in the vicinity stop and stare.

 “I’ll take that as a no.” He could feel the hot glow of her handprint blossoming on his cheek. “Where’s our taxi?” 

“I don’t have a taxi,” she said defiantly as he pushed her towards the street. “You should never trust a Jew, Professor.”

He stopped abruptly.

Of course! The name on the card! 

“You’re Sarah, aren’t you—Professor Weißmann’s niece?” 

His face grew even redder. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this!” 

She spun free and hurried away. 

– 11 –

Sarah guided her uncle’s expensive Delage down the wide boulevard at a pace that suggested they were fleeing the scene of a crime. 

“This would be a bad time to get—”

“Shut up,” she said coldly as she abruptly changed lanes, slinging her passenger against the polished mahogany dashboard. 

She shot through the intersection at the Pont de Sully. 

Likewise, she flew past the broad Pont Marie without even slowing down.

“May I ask where you’re taking me?”

“If you must. When news of the war in Poland hit the airwaves, uncle asked for my help—so I’m helping.”

“Fair enough, but my apartment is on Île Saint-Louis … and you just passed both bridges.” 

It was a fair point—as she’d learned this morning, his posh Paris residence on the small island in the Seine had been in his mother’s family for generations.

“I realize those goons at the Gare de Lyon are milquetoast compared to your Gestapo, but they’re not stupid. You’re fortunate all they had was a blurry photo.” 

There was a pregnant pause, as if the reality of his situation was finally sinking in. “I’m fortunate you’re such a clever woman.”

“Yes . . . yes, you are,” she shot back unabashedly as she turned onto Rue du Temple with such fierceness that she forced him to grab the window frame to keep from falling into her lap.

“Damn!” she suddenly blurted. “I used my uncle’s name!”

He instantly understood. “And when I don’t show up at my apartment, his flat will be their next stop.”

She pulled over and skidded to a stop. “Get in the back and lay down.”

He stared at her for a moment, but, to his credit, he complied without protest. Once he was out of sight, she drove two blocks deeper into le Marais—the Parisian Jewish Quarter—before slowing in front of a classic Haussmann apartment building where the doorman promptly rushed out and opened the gate. She pulled smoothly into her uncle’s numbered slot and killed the engine. She looked around, grateful the garage was completely deserted.

“Let’s go.” 

– 12 –

They burst into Simon’s apartment, but if their urgency alarmed him, he didn’t show it. Sarah launched into an explanation of her blunder and had just reached the part about changing the names on her sign when the phone rang.

“Ja, danke.” Simon hung up the receiver with a measured calm. “An inspector is on his way up.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” Sarah repeated, then turned to Sebastian. With an expression of utter contempt, she grabbed his suitcase. “Bring your trunk; we’ll hide it in my bedroom.” But as she charged down the hallway, a flood of shocking images burst to life in her mind’s eye. She watched Sebastian collapse onto his suitcase, blood pouring from a wicked gash in his head, then as he lay helpless and immobile, a second bullet slammed into the suitcase. She stumbled and fell against the wall, knocking a painting askew as she slipped to the floor. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, grabbing her by the arm.

She shook free, then placed her finger in the neat little hole in the leather of his case. “It’s a shame they missed,” she mumbled softly, then hopped to her feet. 

They stowed his luggage, then he followed her into Simon’s suite. In the corner of his bedroom, she ran her hand along the waist-high wainscoting, and a narrow, hidden door swung open.

From the hallway, the doorbell chimed.

“Get in.”

Sebastian stepped inside, expecting her to shut the door behind him, but instead, she shoved him deeper and slipped inside with him. With a soft click, she sealed the door, swallowing them in darkness. For a heart-stopping moment, Sebastian was back on the Baltic seafloor—trapped, helpless. But then, another sensation took hold: Sarah, pressed against him, her athletic frame firm and warm, her expensive perfume permeating the stale air. 

“Bonjour, Professor Weißmann?”

Even through the panel the inspector’s voice sounded gruff and Sebastian instantly imagined a burly brownshirt patrolling the streets of Berlin.

“Ja, I am Professor Weißmann, and you are?” 

In spite of his age—Simon was almost seventy-seven—and a host of infirmities that hindered his mobility, his voice was still rich and full-throated, and it carried easily down the long hallway.

“I’m Inspector Forné. I have a few questions I need to ask you. May I come in?”

“Speak up, please. My hearing isn’t what it used to be.” 

There was nothing wrong with his hearing.

“May I come in?”

“Certainly, Inspector. Please, have a seat; what’s this about?”

“I’m sorry to intrude, but the Huns have attacked Poland—we’re once again at war.” 

“It’s shocking, but that can’t be why you’re here. Surely you know I despise the Nazis. They ousted me from my university in 1933.”

“Actually, Professor, I’m here about an incident that occurred about an hour ago at Gare de Lyon.”

“But, Inspector, I’ve been here all day.”

“We’re looking for a high-ranking Nazi by the name of Sebastian von Kessel. He left Marseilles this morning bound for Paris, but a young woman helped him slip past my men. A woman holding a sign with your name on it.”

“You were right,” Sebastian whispered, but all his praise earned him was an elbow to the ribs.

“And our dossier on von Kessel suggests you know one another?”

“Oh yes, quite right; Sebastian was one of my best and brightest when I was Dean of the Archaeology department in Heidelberg. We’ve stayed in touch over the years . . . for professional reasons.”

“Has he been in contact since he arrived today?”

“Not yet, but I did get a telegram from him before he left Marseilles. Here, you can read it yourself.”

In the prolonged silence that followed, Sebastian began to notice the slow ebb and flow of Sarah’s breathing.

“Can you explain this?” Inspector Forné asked.

“I can, but you’re not going to be impressed—it’s not the least bit nefarious. I am the Directeur of the Department of Oriental Antiquities at the Louvre. My department includes the Levant, of course, and Sebastian and I share a professional hobby: We’re both keenly interested in the Knights Templar, and what they discovered in Jerusalem.”

“A senior Nazi made a special trip to Paris on the eve of a war to confer with you on some kind of ancient relic?” 

Sebastian didn’t need to see the inspector’s face; he could feel the incredulity dripping off every word. He never should’ve put Simon and his niece in such a compromising situation.

Simon’s reply was curt. “Yes—that’s precisely what I’m telling you.”

“And you were planning to meet this evening?”

“Yes, we always meet at Le Lutétia, a pleasant little café not far from his apartment on Île Saint-Louis.”

“So why do you suppose a woman used your name to help him escape from the train station?”

“It’s not my area of expertise, Inspector” Simon said tartly, “but it’s painfully obvious to me that the Gestapo has infiltrated the Paris Western Union office.” 

He could easily picture the professor’s withering stare boring through the insolent inspector.

“Thank you, Professor. I won’t take up anymore of your time.”

“Good evening, Inspector,” Simon said.

Moments later, the door closed with a dull thud.

Sarah released the latch and rushed into the living room, where Simon was settling into a white leather chair. He gave them a knowing smile as he reached up and smoothed his perfectly trimmed Vandyke. 

“That’ll buy us some time,” he said. “They’ll never expect a Jewish refugee to be hiding a Nazi fugitive.” He laughed, but the tension in the room remained. Sarah’s resentment at Sebastian’s presence was palpable.

“I’m sorry, Professor, this was stupid of me. I didn’t know the Wehrmacht was about to invade Poland.”

Sarah’s face flushed with rage. “You’re either a liar or a fool! There’s a von Kessel standing next to Himmler in every damned photo I’ve ever seen of that monster!”

She glared at him, hands planted defiantly on her hips, but there was nothing he could say—she was right.

Simon lifted a calming hand before Sebastian could answer. “Enough. It’s time for my cigar.”

Sarah rushed to help him as he climbed awkwardly to his feet. “Join me, please, on the terrace.”

Sebastian followed them outside but drifted away, stepping to the edge of the balcony. He rested his hands on the iron railing, gazing at the twinkling lights of la Tour Eiffel, still untouched by war. Would the ‘City of Lights’ go dark tomorrow?

“My dear,” Simon began, taking Sarah’s hand like a father, “in 1933, as students flung books into the flames, two uniformed men pounded on my door.”

“They let me take only what I could carry in my briefcase. They rushed me to Tingelhoff, where a transport plane idled on the tarmac. The moment I was aboard, it shot down the runway, and as we soared over Berlin, I knew I was seeing the Fatherland for the last time.”

“I had no idea where it was taking me—until we crossed the Rhine. When we landed at Le Bourget, a car was waiting. And standing beside it was a man.”

Simon raised his arm, pointing across the terrace, and Sarah’s gaze instinctively followed.

“That man. And furthermore—”

Sebastian held up a hand, urgency tightening his voice. “Professor, please—it’s too dangerous. She doesn’t—”

But Simon waved him silent.

“Finally, my dear, you should know that after Kristallnacht, when I was desperate to save you, it was Sebastian that made all the arrangements in Germany.”

Sarah rose slowly; her dark misty eyes still locked on his. In them flickered a mixture of shame and appreciation, but mostly uncertainty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” she mumbled, then turned abruptly and disappeared into the flat.

Sebastian watched her go, then shot Simon a sideways glance and shook his head. “Was that really necessary? If Heydrich ever found out …” he stopped abruptly, as if he’d just realized the magnitude of his sins. “At least you didn’t mention the gallery.”

“We’re going to need her,” Simon replied evenly. “Now sit, my boy, and tell me what you found in Jerusalem. Then we’ll decide what to do with you.”

– 13 –

Evening had ushered in a welcome breeze by the time Sarah reappeared. She was carrying a silver tray with three glasses: pink-filled coupes that were already sweating profusely.

“I thought we could all use a cocktail,” she said. “I hope Kir Royal isn’t too ‘French’ for you, Professor?”

Her tone was polite but reserved, and there was no hiding her red-rimmed eyes. He sensed this was a peace offering of sorts. “Please, call me Sebastian.”

Simon accepted a cocktail but refused to be distracted. “You’re certain of the translation—it was an Englishknight?”

“Positive—it was translated the same way, multiple places.” He slumped back in his chair and sipped at his drink. “I was so damn sure this was your Templar.” 

In 1187 an anonymous Templar had led an attack that forced Saladin to negotiate a truce, saving thousands of Christians trapped in Jerusalem. Simon had referenced this extraordinary act of bravery in a paper back in ’32. Already recognized as the leading expert in academia on the medieval Templar brotherhood, that infamous paper had made Simon an instant celebrity. Newspaper and magazine articles were written about his sizzling accusation: the Knights Templar had blackmailed their way to power using a relic from Jerusalem that threatened the Vatican’s stranglehold on Christian orthodoxy.

“Cheer up, my boy, I’m not saying you’re wrong; I simply can’t validate your assertion. Have you asked your cousin?”

After surviving the horrific train wreck that had claimed Sebastian’s mother, his cousin Robert had devoted himself to the Church and joined the Jesuits. Now a young priest, he owed his coveted assignment at the Vatican’s library to Cardinal Lucien Bessières, whose rise through the Curia had been bankrolled by the de Mare family.

Sebastian shook is head. “There was nothing in the Secret Archive where he works, but he doesn’t have access to the Restricted section.”

Well, ‘Ganymede de Monterel’ is definitely a French name, regardless of what—”

Sarah suddenly perked up. “Uncle, I’ve seen that name!”

“I knew it!” Sebastian shot to his feet.

“Was it this week, my dear?”

“No … not the Cathar documents. It was a letter, a personal letter, to King Philip Augustus from a priest in Tyre.”

“What did it say?” Sebastian asked, his face glowing with excitement. 

Sarah’s expression, however, told a very different story. “I’m sorry, I didn’t read it. I just entered it into the catalogue.”

“That’s quite alright,” Simon said, patting Sarah’s leg like a proud father. “It’ll be there next week.” He turned to Sebastian. “There, you see. Your daring foray into enemy territory has been completely vindicated by my clever niece.” He raised his glass and winked. “To Ganymede de Monterel.”

The soft clink of crystal belied the wail of sirens shrieking off in the distance, but it reminded Simon of unfinished business.

“Before we eat, there’s one final matter,” he said, as if he were writing out a homework assignment on the blackboard. “We need you back in Germany—without compromising our route out of Germany.”

“I know people who could help,” Sebastian said pensively, “but surely they’ve cut off all connectivity by now.”

“Maybe not,” Sarah offered. “There’s one square block of sovereign German territory right here in Paris.”

“Of course! The embassy—I’m sure lots of Germans are congregating there.”

Simon instantly objected. “You most certainly will not. The Sûreté surrounded that place ten seconds after the first bomb fell on Warsaw. You’ll never make it to the gate … but there is a way.” He turned to Sarah. “My dear, ask the operator to place a call to Franz Deeter, he’s an attaché. Leave a message asking him to meet me at Café de Flore for breakfast tomorrow.”

“Franz Deeter,” Sarah repeated as she hurried off to the living room.

“There, my boy, now relax and enjoy your cocktail. Who knows when we’ll get an opportunity like this again.”

Sebastian looked admiringly at his friend as he leaned back, silhouetted by the lights of Paris—a picture of contentment. It was the way he would always remember him.

– 14 –

Lauterbourg, France

September 10, 1939

Ten minutes.

Sebastian was trembling despite the stifling heat. Outside the window of their stolen Citroën, the Rhine lay dark and still, just beyond the far shore the safety of the Fatherland beckoned. He glanced at Kurt—calm, unreadable—and whispered a quiet prayer of gratitude.

Simon’s contact at the German embassy had contacted the Paris Gestapo, and by Sunday morning, with Sarah’s help, Sebastian was on a train to Metz posing as a diplomatic courier. He longed to visit Aunt Geneviève—she’d rebuilt her life at the de Ware’s château—but he couldn’t risk it. His uncle Charles, who had seized control of Société des Mares in ’38, was a fierce nationalist and for the past year they’d only spoken when forced to at the family pew in Notre Dame Cathedral.

The Metz safe house wasn’t a house at all, it was a first-floor flat with a stairwell that creaked ominously with every step. Tucked away in a rundown district catering to factory workers, it was the kind of place where no one paid attention to strangers. From the window, when the wind parted the thick haze drifting in from the ironworks, a low steeple could be seen above the rooftops. By the fifth day, suffocating in solitude, he decided to find it.

Saint Vincent’s was a modest church, its weathered stone façade as dirty and dilapidated as the parish it served. Inside, he dipped his fingers into the cool water of the font and crossed himself, and for the first time in days, he felt safe.

He knelt in an empty pew, unaware of the man in dirty coveralls who slipped in and sat behind him. The stranger waited respectfully, but he didn’t pray—his allegiance belonged elsewhere. 

“When you’re ready to go home,” the stranger finally whispered, “let me know.”

Five minutes.

The Lauterbourg checkpoint was just ahead, and the air was thick and heavy and smelled of decay from the marshy riverbank just below. Kurt pulled to the side of the road and killed the engine. The click and chirring of insects filled the sudden silence.

Kurt pressed a familiar shape into his hand. “Here, take this.”

“Expecting a shootout?”

“Always,” he said with a little a laugh, “but I’m usually disappointed.”

The pounding in his head eased a bit—his brother’s composure was the best tonic. 

Blinding spotlights flared as Kurt rolled the big black Citroën forward and stopped in front of the barricade. Sebastian nervously scanned the checkpoint.

Two sentries, their rifles relics from the last war, tossed away their cigarettes, while off to the right, a portly gendarme in a sweat-stained uniform emerged from a rusty metal building. But it was the young lieutenant storming toward them with his sidearm raised that was going to be the problem. 

“Halt! This crossing is closed by order of the French Army!”

Sebastian grabbed the doorhandle, blood humming in his veins. Kurt’s plan was simple, inspired in fact, but it required a front man fluent in French.

Sebastian held out his hands. “Lieutenant I’m sorry to trouble you so late, but getting here from Paris, well—all of France is bracing for war.”

The man stopped ten feet away and raised his pistol. “Who are you?”

“Herr Doktor Elmendorf, deputy cultural attaché at the German embassy—at least I was until last night. This is my driver, Herr Bormann.” 

Only one word seemed to register. “You’re German?” 

“Yes, but we’re diplomats,” he said as calmly as the adrenaline would allow, “and we’ve been given twenty-four hours to leave the country.”

Sebastian was so focused on the pistol aimed at his chest it startled him when the customs agent suddenly materialized just a few feet away—a middle-aged gendarme with a belly that sagged over his leather belt and strained the silver buttons of his tunic. His beady eyes sized up Sebastian like a Savile Row tailor, then turned his attention to the car.

“I’ll handle this,” the portly gendarme growled at the soldier, snatching the two worn leather folios Sebastian had offered to the lieutenant.

“I have my orders!” the lieutenant shot back, turning sharply and stalking away.

The fat man slipped the folios into his pocket without so much as a glance, then he waddled around to the driver’s side of the car—he’d clearly recognized Kurt. 

“I’ll be back in five minutes,” Kurt said as the two men retreated to the rusty metal building that served as the customs office.

Sebastian leaned against the hood of the car wishing he was a smoker—his head hadn’t hurt this bad since the ambulance ride in Haifa. He glanced at his watch; this was taking too long. 

Kurt returned ten minutes later; his mood noticeably soured. “Grab your things,” he muttered, “we’re walking—I had to give him the car.”

Sebastian managed a smirk. “I know it’s stolen, but it’s a long walk to Essen.”

“Across the river smart-guy,” Kurt grabbed the keys, flung them across the hood to Portly. “Now call off your dogs.”

The fat man pocketed the keys and turned to the sentries manning the barricade. “Let them through.”

No one moved. 

“I said, let them through!”

The lieutenant stepped from around the pile of sandbags and pulled his sidearm. “And I said—no one crosses this bridge.”

“I was wrong brother,” Kurt yelled, shoving Sebastian hard into the fat man as he dropped to one knee, brandishing his Luger.

Kurt’s first shot blasted apart the head of the closest sentry. The second soldier flinched, and his shot shattered the Citroën’s windscreen. Armed with an outdated WWI Lebel, he wouldn’t get a second chance—Kurt’s next bullet caught him in the chest.

Cowering behind a sandbag, the lieutenant’s .32 ACP rounds sounded like firecrackers compared to the booming bark of the Luger.

Sebastian rolled away from the gendarme, gunfire ringing in his ears. 

The fat man scrambled for his pistol. Their eyes met, and suddenly it was a race—the winner would live; the loser would die.

Sebastian grabbed for the PPK—fumbled—dropped it.

The fat man grinned, raising his pistol—then the top of his head disappeared in a spray of red.

Silence.

Across the bridge, German floodlights flicked on.

Sebastian couldn’t move. His muscles simply wouldn’t obey. Kurt grabbed his messenger bag, barely sparing a glance at the bodies strewn across the road. “They really should have let us go,” he muttered. Then he grabbed Sebastian’s arm in a vise-like grip and pulled him toward the bright lights of home.