Blood of the Reich (47 page)

“This is the guy you picked as your boyfriend?”

“I didn’t know this at first. And yes, I’ll be kicking myself the rest of my life. Which might be a short life, if any more Nazis are around.”

Sam nodded soberly. “How about it, Amrita? You spot anyone else skulking?”

She shook her head. “I suspect Mr. Barrow has not fully convinced his superiors, whoever they might be. They left him to succeed or fail on his own. Recovery of that staff may prove him to the others.”

“And if anyone else had come with him, I wouldn’t have trusted Jake,” Rominy said. “Or at least I hope not.”

“We can’t catch that misguided man now,” Amrita said. “So let’s bind our wounds, give you butter tea, and let you sleep a little. Then, before you decide what to do next, I have something important to show you.”

T
hey met later in Amrita’s cell. The floor was packed earth, the bed little more than a plank, and yet the nun seemed more content than any woman Rominy had ever met. What was the secret of satisfaction? Was letting go of desire liberation, or lobotomy?

“This letter was sent from America, sealed, and with instructions to give it only to the heir who could open the Closed Door,” Amrita said. “That would be you, Rominy.”

The envelope crackled with age, its airmail stamp and border dating from long, long ago.
To the Last Shambhalan
, it read. She shivered, Sam watching her closely. Then she opened it.

The writing was in English as she expected, the script a feminine hand similar to the other notes she’d retrieved. The paper was yellow and the ink slightly faded, but still quite legible. The penmanship was of a quality never taught anymore.

“Read it aloud, Rominy,” Sam said. She did so.

Dear Descendant,

If you are reading this you’ve used the essence of your veins to open the last blood lock of the drowned city of Shambhala, or at least that is how I think of that odd, troubling place. My companion, who made more study than I ever will, doubts this is the Shambhala of legend at all; that it was a tragic experiment that delved too deep into the mysteries of creation and tapped what shouldn’t be tapped. I don’t know. Those of us who escaped did so in panic and confusion, and there was no time to really understand. If you’ve refound the door that we shut, it’s possible you know far more than we do. Nonetheless, there may be some confusion. Let me share what I can.

In 1938, I was a pilot flying scouting and transport missions for the Chinese air force. At the order of Madame Chiang Kai-shek, I flew an American museum curator named Dr. Benjamin Hood from Hankow to Tibet. He was in pursuit of a German mission to that same mysterious nation. The Nazi goal was secret, and our own pursuit was secret as well. The world was slipping toward war, and great issues were at stake.

In due time, we were sent by the Reting Rinpoche to follow Germans led by a man named Kurt Raeder. The Nazis were going to the place in the Kunlun Mountains where you presumably are now. Hood parachuted into a remote valley that appeared to contain the ruins of Shambhala, the legendary city that was supposed to be a paradise and redeem the world. Instead, my companion related, they found a dead city full of bones, as if some terrible calamity had struck. I meanwhile landed my plane, made my way to this nearby nunnery, and convinced the nuns to show me a back way into the mountain and city. I found Ben, but could not convince him to flee with us. He was determined to stop Raeder. Shortly afterward, huge explosions rocked the Kunlun Mountains and a canyon caved in on itself, damming the city’s river. Shambhala, or whatever name it once really went by, was flooded. Ben and Raeder were gone.

This puzzled Rominy. Hadn’t her great-grandfather gone back to America? She looked at the envelope. It was postmarked
CONCRETE
.

I can’t explain precisely what caused that catastrophe, but I can explain a little of what happened afterward. If you’ve come this far, on the clues I left, you’re worthy of your ancestors. But no doubt you’ve wondered at your origins and how I came—too briefly, I predict—to be a guardian.

Guardian?

Hood had saved a Tibetan nun named Keyuri Lin from the Nazis. Keyuri was wounded in the fighting, and after that terrible night in Shambhala, neither Keyuri nor I was in a condition to go anywhere. The nuns healed wounds both physical and spiritual. And then came the pregnancy. We should have been grateful, but instead were apprehensive. What if the Nazis came back? We wrote down what we remembered, but it was like reconstructing a dream. Keyuri was crushed by the entire experience, and I feared for her sanity. My duty was to return to the Chinese front, but I dared not leave.

The birth was a difficult one and Keyuri became even more depressed. Acquiescence and acceptance had failed her, she said. Her Buddhist faith had been shattered. I hoped the child would give her hope, but the memories were too painful. There were always fears the Germans were coming; always rumors of the very worst things.

I think the force in Shambhala had made her go mad. So a year after the discovery of the city, at a time when Hitler was marching into Poland, I decided during a sleepless night to ask her to come home with me to America where we might seek a cure.

But she wasn’t in her cell, which was very unusual.

It was a cold, windy night, the moon giving the mountains a ghostly glow, and I was about to give up and return to bed when I realized the baby was missing as well.

Dread overwhelmed me.

I ran out the courtyard and up along the ridge crest, calling. I saw her at a cliff edge, silhouetted against the distant snow, and shouted.

She looked at me once, sadly, and then stepped.

I leaped and clutched as she was about to go over.

I couldn’t save her, but I saved your ancestor. I was sprawled at the lip, my arms outstretched, the baby no bigger than a ball. And I watched Keyuri’s robes flapping as she fell far, far away into a chasm, finally at peace.

When I stretched out my arms and rescued that bloodline, I made a choice. I could leave the artifact locked away forever as Keyuri urged, a forgotten power buried. Or I could preserve the chance it might someday be harnessed for good, but only by the right person. If you’re reading this, you’ve followed clues I left behind. I hope you’re that person.

Then it was time to go home to America.

As I write this, the United States has plunged into war. The stakes are enormous, and the effort vast. We are experiencing defeat after defeat, and the world grows ever darker. Because of this, whole armies would be traded for what we glimpsed at Shambhala. So if you find the staff we hid, you must safeguard it. It must only be shared with the right people, at the right time, when we’ve gained wisdom to use it. If you lose it, you absolutely must get it back.

Maybe our species is too young to cope with such responsibilities. Someday, millennia from now, when our wisdom has caught up with our ingenuity, maybe it will be time to finally go back to that lost, dark city. In the meantime, you’ve found all that is left.

To give you strength, remember that the baby’s mother was a good person caught in a terrible time. I will do what little I can for the child, but sooner or later the men that dream of power may come looking for her, and me. If that happens, I will bury the secret until the right bloodline comes to set things right, and mail this letter.

That blood, dear reader, is you. May God protect you on your quest.

E
LIZABETH
C
ALLOWAY

A
PRIL 17, 1942

It was postmarked September 10, 1945.

Rominy put the letter down. “I don’t understand. Who exactly was this Keyuri Lin? And why does my great-grandmother talk as if she’s already dead?” She read again. “
The baby’s mother was a good one
.”

“Don’t you get it, Rominy?” Sam asked gently.

“No, I don’t get it.”

Amrita took her hand and covered the young woman’s. “Beth Calloway took your grandmother to America, as a baby, to raise her there, after leaving a vial of the child’s blood here. But she was not the mother. Your ancestor, Rominy, is not American but Tibetan.”

“
What?
”

Your great-grandmother is Keyuri Lin.”

She was part Tibetan? Ben Hood had had sex with a Buddhist nun? When? How? She remembered what Jake had first told her:
You’re not Rominy Pickett.
Well, that was the understatement of all time. Her previous life seemed light-years away.

“It wouldn’t have been easy for a half-Asian baby in the ’40s,” Sam added. “West Coast Japanese were being locked up. Maybe that’s one reason Calloway hid out in the sticks.”

Rominy slowly nodded. How much Tibetan would she be now? One-eighth. “She wanted to save the baby but she didn’t want to be found. To have the . . . blood lock be found.” She turned to Amrita. “I thought they used a finger we found from my great-grandfather as the source of blood to lock the door. But they didn’t, they used Keyuri.”

The nun nodded. “And Keyuri, as she meditated here in the nunnery, decided the door should never be opened again. She and Miss Calloway disagreed on what they should do. That’s why she took her baby to the cliff: to end the bloodline. The Nazis would have no more reason to come to Tibet.”

“But Beth saved the child.”

“And something of Benjamin Hood: the clues that brought you back here.”

“And the nuns helped Beth.”

“And the baby. It is not for us to take life, or alter destiny. And because of that you are alive, and you are here. Is that not curious? Who knows what fate intends?”

Rominy sat back worriedly. “And now Jake Barrow, if that’s his real name, has the staff. Why did I ever go with him? And where will
he
go? And why did he want it so badly? It didn’t look like it still worked.”

“To recharge it, I’m guessing,” said Sam. “For some reason the Nazis decided it was finally time to find the descendant and open the blood lock. So he hunted you down, lying all the way, to get you here in case they needed lots of blood.”

“Sheep to slaughter,” she murmured.

“Which means . . . ,” Sam mused, “he’s going to an atom smasher?”

“Maybe. Where do they have those, anyway?”

“Hell if I know. Geez, my chest hurts! No offense, Amrita, but I’m losing all serenity.”

“You didn’t have much to lose,” Rominy said.

“It may help you that Jake, unwittingly, didn’t take all his belongings with him,” Amrita said. “In checking your identities, we removed an old baggage tag from a side pocket of his backpack. Before showing you too much, we wanted to know as much as possible about who you were. Here’s the airport code.”

They looked at it. “FRA.”

“France?” guessed Rominy.

“Frankfurt,” Sam said. “I flew through there to get here when I came to Tibet two years ago. It figures the dude goes to Germany. Maybe he’s from there.”

“He seemed pretty American to me.”

“Where else would a Nazi go? Listen, during the war the Germans had guys posing as Americans. They misdirected our troops during the Battle of the Bulge. You’re a victim of an impostor, Rominy. A secret agent.”

“Whatever.” She sighed. “But where in Germany? Wait . . . he mentioned a Vatican of the SS. He told me in the airport that there was a castle Himmler used.”

“Do you remember where it was?”

“No. But if I saw the name again I’d recognize it. I bet we could look it up on the Web if we got to Germany.”

“So how do we get to Germany?”

“There’s something else he left, some money I took because I got tired of him doing all the spending.” She felt more resolute. She’d been led since the explosion of her car. It was time she took charge of her own life and turned the tables. “I’ll use it to go to Germany.”

“
We’ll
go to Germany,” Mackenzie amended.

“Sam, this isn’t your problem.”

“After a bullet in my chest? And you’ve demonstrated you need adult supervision.”

“Me! Has anyone accused you of being ‘adult’ your entire life?”