Blood of the Reich (4 page)

“Any tough-looking guys with shaved heads?”

She looked. Following windshields seemed opaque. No, there was a driver . . . but with big hair, as puffed as a TV anchoress doing a storm report.

“No.”

Her head was beginning to clear, and she was in the one place she’d vowed never to be, locked in a vehicle with a stranger hurtling toward god-knew-where. She had no weapon, no clue, no . . . wait.

She
did
have her purse again. Frozen Foods guy had made a mistake. Hallelujah. Cell phone, car keys—now useless, she realized with sorrow—Tic-Tacs, a tissue packet, lipstick she rarely used, ChapStick she did, compact with mirror, business cards of her own, business cards of boring software clients she’d immediately forgotten and had failed to file, a packaged condom with an embarrassingly old shelf date, a wallet with thirty-two dollars (she had been going to get twenty more on her debit card at Safeway), forgotten souvenir wristband from a Dave Matthews concert, glasses . . .

She popped out her other contact and put on the spectacles. Her sight hadn’t been lost after all. Somewhere in there was a comb with a wicked pointed handle. Nail clippers. Loose earrings with a tip; she had inserted studs for shopping and brought along the others in case Erica texted about Happy Hour.

A veritable arsenal.

Frozen Foods glanced at her. “You wear glasses.”

“Duh.”

“They look nice.”

She regarded him with disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No, I mean . . .” He looked impatient but also somewhat intriguingly frustrated. Was he frightened, too? “Look, we’re going to be friends, okay?”

“The pickup door won’t open.”

“It’s an old truck.”

“Stop and let me out.”

“It’s not safe.”

“I can’t even roll down the window.”

“Give me a chance, Rominy.” It was a plea, not a threat.

She took a breath. “Tell it to the cops.” She pulled out her cell phone. How did he know her name?

“If you dial that, they’ll track us.”

“Who
will track us?”

“The guys who blew up your car.”

“And who are they?” Her finger was poised.

“Men who are looking into your past like I have.”

“I don’t have a past worth looking into.”

“I’m afraid you do. I’m an investigator.”

“Is
that
why you have a gun?”

“What? I don’t have a gun. Wish I did, right now.”

“I saw it on your waist. In the grocery store.”

“This?” He pulled his jacket aside. “It’s
my
cell phone. What, you think I’m a dick? A private eye?”

“More along the lines of a serial killer. And where’s the twelve-gauge to fit into the gun rack here?”

“I’m a reporter for the
Seattle Times
. Investigative journalist with low pay, stingy budget, and an eye for a Ford pickup deal when he sees one. She’s a beast when I punch the gas, though I pay for her eight cylinders at the pump. The environmental writer gives me hell.” He held out his hand. “Jake Barrow. Harmless, when I’m not behind a typewriter. Or, well, terminal.”

She didn’t shake his hand but set her phone in her lap, still gripping it. “You tackled me like a linebacker.”

“You’re not the first girl to complain about my lack of finesse. Look, I’m new at this, too.”

“New at what?”

“Hiding from the bad guys.”

“What
bad guys? And why are you looking into my past?” Her fist curled around her comb. How could she get out? Stab and climb over him at a stoplight, maybe. Make a scene. Holler. Anything but wait like a nitwit. Did she have the courage? Did he deserve her doubt?

He glanced, as if to seek alliance.

But then he accelerated up an on-ramp, merging into crowded Interstate 5 heading north, and took a breath, hesitating. She glanced back. The Space Needle was receding like some signpost to reality, Lake Union shimmering like a mirage.

“Because you’re not really Rominy Pickett.”

5

Wewelsburg Castle, Germany

March 30, 1938

T
wo hundred miles west of Berlin, in the Westphalian countryside not far from where Arminius had destroyed Varus’s Roman legions in A.D. 9, a triangular sixteenth-century castle crowned a rocky outcrop above the village of Wewelsburg. The triangle’s apex pointed, with less deviation than a compass needle, to true north.

“The
Reichsführer
’s Camelot,” said the SS pilot who’d flown Raeder from Berlin. Bruno Halder banked the light civilian Messerschmitt and circled to give the zoologist a view. “Its reconstruction is far from complete, but there are plans the castle will be the tip of a spear-shaped complex of modern buildings. A ceremonial avenue will provide the lance’s shaft. The Spear of Destiny, inspired by the legendary lance that pierced Christ. The village will have to be relocated, of course.”

“I’d not heard of this.”

“The
Reichsführer
is not a show-off like Göring.” Halder made the disparagement casually, secure in his own SS rank, and aimed for a nearby airfield as they dropped steeply. “Himmler’s mission is veiled. No air shows, no medals. But he’s far more visionary. A romantic, actually. Below you, Raeder, is the place that will someday be known as the birthplace of modern man.”

“What does that mean?”

“Its Aryan future. And a crypt for its leaders. Camelot, as I said.”

“Beautiful,” Raeder said politely, confused but still flattered to be flying—a first—and enjoying the vista over the greening countryside. “Almost too beautiful for the
Schutzstaffel
.”

“It has its own austerity, as you’ll see. The castle even has a
Hexenkeller
, a witches’ cellar. They burned more than fifty witches down there in the seventeenth century. Not so long ago, really.” He cut the power and the plane bounced as it landed.

It was dusk when a staff car delivered them to the castle gate. The village of Wewelsburg was subdued, its streets empty, house lights veiled behind lace curtains. Raeder sensed people peeking at them as they drove past. When they got out of the auto at the ramp across a dry moat, the only sound was of jackdaws crowing. Then German shepherd guard dogs on chains sent up cacophonous barking, their teeth phosphorescent in the gloom.

The gate wood was blond, varnished, and obviously new, carved with swastikas and the twin lightning-bolt runes of the SS. Sentries stood like statues and torches burned like a medieval dream. It was a Renaissance castle, meaning broad glass windows instead of narrow arrow slits, but most were dark. There were towers at the three corners, the southern ones domed with roofs like a homburg hat. After scrutiny by the guards, Raeder and Halder were ushered inside.

The courtyard was curiously claustrophobic, a narrow triangle with walls as sheer inside as out. At the northern apex, a fat round tower with flat roof was surrounded by scaffolding. There were lumber, planks, piles of stones, and bags of mortar.

“Modernized?” Raeder asked.

“Reimagined. The
Reichsführer
has selected it as a spiritual home for our order. A labor camp is being constructed to implement his visionary plan. Slaves have been screened to find the best craftsmen. Wewelsburg will be a capital, a Vatican, for the SS. This will be a center of scholarship for inquiries into the origins of the Germanic people and the Aryan race. There will be a planetarium at the crown of the North Tower and a crypt for Reich leadership in its cellar. Reichsführer Himmler sees across centuries, Raeder. He’s a prophet.”

“It is our
Führer
, Adolf Hitler, who is the prophet.”

The correction was mild, professorial, but spoken with authority. They snapped to attention and wheeled. There was Himmler studying his own creation, dressed in military greatcoat, jodhpurs, and boots. He stood very straight. Since the interview in Berlin, Raeder had read about his superior. At Hitler’s failed 1923 putsch, Himmler had carried the staff of the Imperial Eagle as proudly as a schoolboy.

“And I am the mystic scholar, the Merlin, of my brotherhood of knights,” Himmler went on. “Our
Führer
does not share all my intellectual interests; he is a politician, a man who must wrestle with the practical and immediate. But he allows me the indulgence, the luxury, of exploring the distant past and possible future. I’m fortunate to have such a patron, am I not, Professor Raeder?”

“As are we all,
Reichsführer
.”

Himmler nodded. “We live in the presence of a great man. A very great man.” The spectacles caught the dim light so that Raeder once again couldn’t see the
Reichsführer
’s eyes, but only hear his tone of worship. The fervor, of one powerful man for another, surprised him. He’d expect more jealousy, more doubt, but no. The zoologist was silent, not knowing what to say.

“Well,” Himmler finally went on. “Thank you for visiting me in my castle.”

“The honor is of course mine.”

“I do not invite everyone—this is a quiet place, a secret place, until I finish it—but I’m intrigued by Tibet,
Untersturmführer
. Intrigued by what such a mysterious country might tell us. Will you join me in my study?”

“Reichsführer
, I am bewildered by your hospitality.”

Himmler smiled at the confession. “I look for men who can serve. Men who have a
need
to serve.” Once more his gaze was intense, and Raeder felt it probing the recesses of his soul. The zoologist hoped his life was about to be given meaning. And, with it, salvation.

“Halder, thank you for bringing my guest. They are expecting you in the dining room.” The dismissal of the pilot was plain. Halder betrayed a flicker of disappointment, clicked his heels, and left.

Then the
Reichsführer
became a temporary tour guide as he led the way, explaining how a wreck of a castle was being transformed into a showcase of German craftsmanship. “There’s been a fort on this outcrop for eons, but the present castle was built between 1603 and 1609. It was bombarded in the Thirty Years War.”

“And witches in the cellar?”

“Ah, your pilot shared the folklore. Don’t worry, they don’t haunt the place. No more than any other vermin that is eradicated.”

There was an exquisite spiral staircase, a reference library, dining rooms and canteens, and carvings that included runes and swastika-centered sun wheels, all of it a display of Teutonic carpentry. “The North Tower will have a shamanic sun wheel inlaid into its floor, and a roundtable for the twelve primary leaders of our order,” the
Reichsführer
said. “My architects joke with me about King Arthur, but I am not joking. I think the modern world would benefit from some of the ceremonies of the past. In the East they believe in reincarnation, do they not, Raeder?”

“Most certainly,
Reichsführer
. Life in Tibet revolves around the next life.”

“I believe it, too. I believe I’m the reincarnation of King Henry the Fowler, who fought the invading Magyars from the East a thousand years ago. Does that strike you as odd?”

“It would not surprise a Buddhist.”

Himmler gave a glance to show he’d not missed that Raeder had swerved from the question. “But I believe in focusing on
this
life. We’re reincarnated to fulfill a purpose. Come to my study where we can speak alone.”

That room was in the West Tower and thus circular, and had a stone fireplace, bearskin rug, and wooden furniture. The walls were mostly bare, showing the same austerity that had been present in Himmler’s office in Berlin. Despite his rehearsed warmth and nostalgic architecture, there was a vacuum to the man’s surroundings. Lending the only color was a bowl of fruit.

The
Reichsführer
invited his guest to sit and took a chair opposite. Both seats were high-backed, straight, and rather uncomfortable. SS lightning bolts had been stamped into the leather.

“Now, Raeder, you’re familiar with the Ahnenerbe?”

“The SS research division.”

“I’m sending missions all over the globe to investigate intriguing theories about the origins of our race. Iceland. Peru. National Socialism believes in drawing logical conclusions from modern science, as I told you—even if the conclusions are uncomfortable. We do not fear the truth. But we believe the German people are descended from a root, master race and that these Aryans—us, Raeder—represent the best hope of the future evolution of humankind. Do you agree?”

“So teaches the SS.”