The Project 02 - The Lance

with an eagle and swastika. The binder contained SS Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler's long term plan for after the war.
    PARSIFAL.
    The Grand Master knew the contents by heart, but it always inspired him to read the vision of the Reichsfuhrer. He opened the binder. The pages were foxed and turning brown. The neat, ordered lines of type were still legible. He read for a few moments. He set the PARSIFAL documents aside and rested his hand on a thin booklet. The cover page was inscribed with the runic letters of the old Germanic tribes.

    His father had been one of Himmler's inner circle. All through his childhood and early years, his father had taught him. Prepared him for the day when his father had shown him the binder and told him of PARSIFAL. Of the Grand Council. Then he'd talked about the ritual that had brought German success after success early in the war.
    "I was having dinner with Himmler and Heydrich in the North Tower of the Reichsfuhrer's castle." His father had sighed, remembering when the swastika had flown over three continents.
    "Heydrich said he had written down the words of the invocation. Himmler was Grand Master of the Council but it was always Heydrich who invoked the power of the Spear. After he was assassinated in '42, things turned against us."
    "But the Fuhrer, father. Surely he could have carried it on, or the Reichsfuhrer."
    His father had snorted in contempt. "The Fuhrer! In the beginning, he understood. He believed. He had learned. He did what was necessary. He followed the ritual. But he turned his back on the old ways. He forgot where his power came from and became caught in the illusion of his own will. You must never make that mistake.
    "Himmler tried to continue, but the power is…difficult…to control. It will not respond unless conditions are perfect. The right day and time. The right setting. Everything must be exact."
    His father had held up the booklet with the runes on the cover. "We will study this together. One day we will retrieve the Spear. On that day the Reich will be reborn. If I am gone, it will be your duty to speak these words. If your honor is pure, if your loyalty is true, you will prevail."
    "Yes, Father."
    He had never forgotten.
    The final stages of PARSIFAL were unfolding. It couldn't be coincidence that the Holy Spear had been found just as the forces he'd set in motion were coming together. It was a sign from the gods, a sign he was favored. It was only right, his just due. The Grand Master raised his glass toward the painting of Barbarossa and smiled.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

    Carter found Arslanian's store on a narrow side street of the Armenian quarter. The metal gate that protected the shop was rolled up. The entrance was stacked with hand crafted Sabbath trays, candlestick holders, plates and ceramics decorated with vivid colors, flowers and animals.
    The shop stretched back from the street through the entire block. The walls were lined with goods. The interior was in shadow. A sliver of daylight came from a door cracked open at the far end.
    H alfway down, someone sat in a swiveled wooden office chair at a desk piled high with papers and pots. The chair was turned away from the entrance. The figure wasn't moving.
    Carter's ear began itching. The darkness of the shop didn't feel right. He slipped his pistol out and held it down by his right side. He moved away from the light at the entrance, toward the figure in the chair, scanning the shadows.
    He reached the desk and turned the chair around. Arslanian's body slumped over and slid to the floor. Something fell from his right hand.
    There was a small hole in his forehead. Blood trickled from his ear and into his beard. His eyes were open. They told nothing about whoever had killed him. The only messages Carter had ever seen in dead men's eyes were reminders of his own mortality.
    Arslanian's cheek was warm, the blood not yet dry. The killer had been here a few minutes before. Probably right after Arslanian opened up for the day.
    Nick bent down to pick up whatever had dropped from Arslanian's dead fingers. A soft sound like a sneeze came from somewhere in the darkness of the shop. A stinging wind passed the back of his skull and a vase exploded behind him. He ducked and fired three quick shots over the desk at the back.
    Pottery shattered along the wall where the rounds hit. The .45 sounded like cannon fire in the narrow confines of the shop. A rapid patter of silenced shots sent broken plates raining down on his