William Tyree - The Fellowship

“Even so,” the priest protested, “Your scientists can learn nothing about Mary’s ancestry from this.”

Even as LeFevre continued to lodge protests, Seiler restored the glass containing the reeds to its home within the larger reliquary. Behind them, Himmler had located the reliquaries containing pieces of the True Cross and a nail used in the crucifixion. “Just look at the craftsmanship,” he said admiringly.

LeFevre flung himself at the reichsfuhrer, knocking Himmler off balance while wrestling the reliquary of the True Cross from his grasp. He hugged it to his chest and backed into a corner of the sacristy. The relic was pushed against his robe, revealing a set of bulging ribs, his torso having been wasted by malnourishment. His eyes darted between the five Nazis, daring them to act.

Himmler sighed. “Don’t be a fool, priest. Yes, we will take the Holy Crown since it interests the professor. But these are not even the relics of the passion that we came for. They pale in comparison.”

The priest gritted his teeth. “What are you talking about?”

“The Holy Ossuary, of course. The bones.”

Confusion reigned in the priest’s face. “Ossuary?” he repeated slowly, as if uttering the words for the first time.

Wolf had come across the term only once or twice in his ancient civilization studies. If memory served, he believed an ossuary was some sort of secondary burial crypt containing the bones of a person that had already decomposed.

Himmler’s eyebrows arched. “Well well. It seems that our informant was correct. The relic is indeed a well-guarded secret. Not even the resident priest knows what riches lie within his own church.”

A great crash was heard, followed by the unmistakable sound of something hard — marble, perhaps, or plaster — breaking into pieces.

Lang suddenly appeared at the doorway. “There’s something going on downstairs!”

“The others must have arrived,” Himmler said. “Let’s go.”

Dr. Seiler took the reliquary of the Holy Crown into his arms, seemingly surprised by its heft. LeFevre remained in the corner, muttering in Latin as he hugged the reliquary of the True Cross for dear life.

Wolf and Lang led the descent, followed closely by Himmler and Dr. Seiler. Wolf heard voices. German, French and — as unlikely as it seemed — Italian. As they neared the ground floor, he heard shouting, followed by the crackle of gunfire.

The foursome froze. With the others falling in line behind him, Wolf pressed his back against the stone wall, fumbling with the bolt handle of his MP-40 for a moment before managing to push it forward. The shooting went on uninterrupted for several seconds. It sounded as if at least three guns were at work, if not more. He imagined Hoffman fending off a group of French resistance fighters.

The young SS soldier was filled with insecurity. He was 15 years old. He was a child of the city. He had never so much as hunted a rabbit in his life. His rifle practice had been limited to a handful of sessions picking off stationary targets in the fields below Wewelsburg castle. More sessions had been scheduled, but a shortage of live ammunition had forced their cancellation.

“Back upstairs,” Dr. Seiler urged.

“No,” Himmler said. He pulled his Luger from its holster, switched it off safety, and chambered a round. “We aren’t leaving without the ossuary.”

“With all due respect, you are the second most powerful man in the Reich!” the professor hissed. “I am sure that the fuhrer would agree that the bones are not worth your life.”

Himmler considered this for several tense seconds. Downstairs, the gun battle continued, although it sounded as if there were now only two shooters.

“I saw a south exit at the bottom of the stairs,” Wolf suggested.

Himmler nodded. “Then the professor and I will try to escape. You must go back into the cathedral and secure the ossuary.”

The professor noted the blank looks on the soldiers’ faces. “You are looking for a rectangular box made of chalk,” he said, speaking at a rapid clip. “About 51 centimeters long and perhaps half as high. There may be inscriptions on the exterior. Hoffman was to look within or beneath the High Altar.”

Seiler said more, but Wolf did not hear him. His senses heightened as the group descended the stairs. His nostrils were filled with the scent of extinguished prayer candles. The rattle of shell casings clanging against the floor tiles was so tangible that he could taste the brass in his mouth.

They reached the ground floor. Just as Wolf had remembered, the south exit to Rue Cloitre Notre Dame was to their right. To their left was the entrance to the main cathedral.

“Good luck,” Himmler muttered as he exited the south door with his Luger drawn. Seiler followed, his gait burdened by the heft of the reliquary of the Holy Crown.

Wolf and Lang shared a look. It was instantly understood that although they were both scared, they were going to fight. They crossed themselves. Then they crept through the doorway, the barrels of their submachine guns poking out like antennae.

They scampered into a row of pews near the Portal of the Last Judgment. The cathedral was smoky. The gunfire was sporadic now, but excruciatingly loud as it echoed in the vast acoustics of the cathedral.

It seemed to be coming from the sanctuary area. Confident that they had not yet been seen, the boys filed out into the aisle and, putting some distance between each other, crept toward the center of the church. Wolf was the first to spot the dead. Two figures dressed in thick hooded brown robes identical to those worn by the bicyclist.

Lang pointed toward the painted screen surrounding the choir. A third assailant who looked very much alive. He crouched, and then crawled, to the body of one of his fallen brethren. The assailant grabbed for the dead man’s weapon. Either his own gun had jammed, Wolf figured, or he was out of ammunition.

A single shot was fired from somewhere in the church. Wolf heard it cut through the air near his head. He dropped to a knee as a second burst rang out. This time, Wolf felt a burning sensation rip through his left shoulder.

He dropped to the ground, rolled left in hopes of getting out of the line of fire, and looked at Lang. Good, Catholic Lang. Devout Lang. He was hiding behind a pew, staring at Wolf’s right shoulder, which was bleeding.

“Help me,” Wolf said. But Lang did not move. For a moment, Wolf thought that he too had been hit. But then he saw the fear in his friend’s eyes. He was not hurt. He was frozen in fear.

Now the assailant had moved back to the screen. He was firing again, but in the opposite direction. Wolf’s shoulder was burning hot now. Letting his arm dangle to his side provided the only relief. He got to his feet and made his way down the row to the south side of the nave. The echo of gunfire in the massive structure covered the sound of his jackboots against the marble floor.

He moved into position behind the hooded figure. Forcing the pain from his mind, he knelt behind a pew, trying various firing positions without the assistance of his left arm. As he had found during training, the MP-40 was built for fighting in close proximity to one’s enemy. It was practically made for rushing defensive positions. But its long vertical clip and practically nonexistent stock made it an awkward rifle to fire from a stationary position.

Wolf finally caught the assailant in his iron sights. Mother Mary of God, he thought. Forgive me for what I am about to do. And he pulled the trigger, ripping off a burst of 9mm rounds. The gun’s blowback caught the inexperienced rifleman off guard. The weapon slipped, sending the bolt smashing against his forehead.

The swelling on his lower forehead was immediate and painful. But as he looked up, he saw that his shooting had been true. The robed man was slumped sideways, motionless.