Blood of the Reich (8 page)

“Such a discovery in itself would be enough to garner us all global fame,” Raeder went on. “It would reunify the Aryan and prove to skeptics that Germany’s racial theories are true. Julius will add to our understanding of the physics of the earth, and Hans its human history. Franz will bring back movie footage of ceremonies never witnessed by Western man.”

“If all goes well,” Eckells amended.

“But there’s more at stake here than that. We’ve all heard of the strange theories of Einstein, Heisenberg, and Bohr. A universe of the vast and the small, ruled by laws very different from what we perceive in everyday life. Some physicists think these ideas hint at strange and wicked new powers at the level of the atom.”

“But that’s Jewish science,” Kranz objected.

“Even a Jew might stumble on a truth. And we must never let the Jew have a monopoly on a new kind of power. We true Germans are far ahead of them, I think. Haushofer founded the Vril Society two decades ago to search for the power source that stories attribute to Shambhala.”

“What’s Vril?” Muller asked. “I don’t remember this from my physics texts.”

“A convenient name, taken from an old novel, of what the
Reichsführer
thinks may be a very real power source. These ancients understood the natural world in ways we’ve forgotten, and found a way to tap fundamental energies far more powerful than gunpowder or gasoline. This power can be directed by the mind to build or destroy. It is power that may still exist in fabulous cities that, many writers and thinkers believe, lay hidden under the surface of the earth—cities that are the origin of the idea of hell, perhaps.”

Diels took a swig of schnapps. “You’re taking us to hell, Kurt?”

“Or heaven. Somewhere may be hidden the most fabulous city since the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlán. A new El Dorado! Not because of gold but because of power. The ignorant would call what travelers have sought ‘magic,’ but it’s in fact simply a spiritually higher mastery of science and the cosmos. It restores man from a plaything of physics, a victim, to its central mover. We become not pawns but kings. Not mortals but gods. We become not the product of creation, but its manipulator. Has not our
Führer
demonstrated this kind of ‘magic’ already? Hitler is destined to be the true King of the World, and our mission is to help him. This is both a religious expedition, gentlemen, and a scientific one. We’re being sent to find, essentially, supernatural powers—powers that our Aryan ancestors once possessed and ruled with, but which have been lost for millennia.”

“But how were they lost?”

“We don’t know. Perhaps they were deliberately hidden, to await reemergence of a fit people like us of the Third Reich.” The first Reich was the heroic prehistoric world of Aryan god-men, the Germans knew. The second has been the chaos of history caused by the cursed philosophies of Jew and Christian. Now they were at the dawn of the third, the Reich of National Socialism. “We, gentlemen, are the apostles, the knights, the angels, who may bring the greatest secret in history back to the Fatherland. If we do, Germany conquers all, easily and completely. And then our species’ evolutionary destiny can truly begin, unpolluted by human vermin.”

“We’re going to steal this Vril from the monks of Tibet?” Muller tried to clarify.

“Not steal. Re-find. Tibetans are sunk in ignorance and poverty. They’ve forgotten their own genius. We’re going to plumb their legends to find if the legends of our ancestors are true, and learn where Vril is hidden. Tibet will be our new ally, on the flank of Russia, China, and British India alike.” He took his own swig. “Never has so small a group of men been given the possibility of achieving so much.”

“But how will we find what no one else has?”

“Reichsführer Himmler has been researching these legends. He’s found maps that date from the Middle Ages and the time of Frederick Barbarossa. We’ll combine those clues with what the Tibetans know.”

“Barbarossa!”

“There’s evidence Barbarossa was interested in these mysteries himself. And belief that he may have left us a key.”

“What key?”

“I’ll reveal that to you when the time comes.”

“And if we fail?” asked Diels. “What if there’s no Shambhala and no Vril?”

Raeder looked at them seriously. “In that case, we might have to consider never returning to Germany. That is not a message the
Reichsführer
cares to hear.”

9

The Skagit River Valley, United States

September 4, Present Day

N
orth of Starbird Road, Interstate 5 dips toward the Skagit River Valley and paradise opens up. The peaks of islands in Washington’s inland sea hump on the northwest horizon: Fidalgo, Lummi, Cypress, and Orcas as green and precipitous as a child’s crayon drawings. To the northeast is the snowy volcanic cone of Mount Baker and the cutover foothills of the Cascade Range. Between is a plump platter of farmland, a onetime bay filled with sediment at the end of the last ice age. The result is some of the richest soil in the world. A hundred crops are grown there: tulips in spring, berries in early summer, and potatoes, corn, and grapes approaching harvest on this day.

The timelessness should have reassured Rominy: the gleam of glaciers, the meringue of clouds, and the orderly phalanx of ripened crops were reassuring. The overcast was breaking and the surface of the Skagit sparkled like sequins, while the valley’s overall palette was toned sepia by September’s golden glaze. She often came here on weekends, bicycling and kayaking to escape the tedium of her cubicle in Seattle. But now the beauty had a sense of menace. Was she really being pursued? Where was Jake Barrow taking her? The old pickup whined as the journalist kept it at seventy-five mph.

Rominy had managed to regain some composure after their escape. Her cheeks were rubbed dry, annoyingly red, her posture as prim as a princess. With time to think, she’d decided to wait and observe, since Jake didn’t seem immediately threatening and she didn’t want to be abandoned somewhere, waiting for skinheads to drive by. Since the insanity on the freeway he’d been quieter, watchful, brooding, checking his mirrors like a fugitive on the lam. Occasionally he’d glance her way and give a half smile, as if reassuring a child or a dog, but he radiated tension the way a stove does heat. The unease made him seem more human, believable, persuadable. Maybe she could talk her way out of this, whatever “this” really was. She thought he’d take side roads, but he seemed more interested in making distance. Half an hour had passed.

“Where are you taking me?” she finally tried. “Do you live up here?”

“You do.”

“What? No!”

“I’m taking you to property you don’t know you own.”

She groaned. “It might relax me a little more if you began making sense.”

He adjusted the rearview mirror for the thousandth time, the little bullet hole in back sighing like a leaking tire. “I’m about to, but I get rattled by car bombs and bullets. I just wanted to get some distance from the skinheads so I have time to explain. What I’m going to tell you is more than a little surprising.” He tried the half smile again. “We
could
do this at a Starbucks.”

The name conveyed a spark of reassurance. Steamed milk in public. She had a Starbucks card in her wallet.

“But I’m going to suggest something more refined.”

“Don’t go to any trouble.” She didn’t try to keep sarcasm from her voice.

“There’re a couple of wineries up the valley. Your humble rescuer wants to share a bottle of pinot noir while we sort this out. Skagit’s an excellent
terroir
for that varietal.”

Jesus H. Insanity. Kidnapped by a wine snob. Well, serves you right, Rominy. Should have gone for a Republican in the canned foods aisle. “You know, if you’d come on to me in wine or spices, this might have gone better.”

Now it was Jake’s turn to be confused. “What?”

“Never mind.” She winced. “My knees hurt.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I should have said this before. There’s a first aid kit in back of the seat with some antiseptic pads.”

At least the moron looked chagrined.

The space behind the seats was piled with a mildewed tent, sleeping bags, pads, and other gear. “I like to camp,” Jake said as she rummaged.

“You’re not taking us into the woods, are you?”

“Not exactly. It’s a red plastic box.”

She found the first aid packet, bandaged her own knees, and sat annoyed at her disarray. Rominy was no supermodel, but men had been known to give her a second glance. She took pride in looking good, and she’d worn a skirt to the store. Now she was dirty, scraped, and tear-stained, and she didn’t like Jake seeing her that way. Her eyes were an intriguing hazel, hair dark with an auburn tint, skin just slightly olive, which helped her avoid that Seattle winter-worm look, and she wasn’t afraid to be seen in a swimsuit. But now? She drew confidence from her appearance, and this weird flight from the Safeway parking lot had drained it.

Was that part of Barrow’s plan?

“Here, I’ll take that.” He held his hand out for the antiseptic pad she’d cleaned herself with and glanced at the stain. “Blood.”

“Heck, yes, it’s blood.” She could still feel the sting.

“I know you’re mad, but it will be worth it. You’ll see.” He dropped the pad into a plastic bag he had hanging from the dash. The truck had old-fashioned knobs instead of buttons. If this was what Jake could afford on his investigative reporter’s salary, how good could he be?

Judging, Rominy. Right now she was a step or two behind this guy. She had to get a step or two ahead.

They passed Mount Vernon and Burlington and took the Cook Road exit off the freeway, heading east up the valley. Barrow seemed to relax a little. The mountains began squeezing in toward the Skagit River like a funnel, piling up toward the rocky crests of North Cascades National Park. The foothills were snowless in late summer, the land somnolent and satisfied as the harvest came in before the autumn storms. Pasture hemmed by dark forest, the way she imagined a place like Germany might look. She’d never been to Europe. The Skagit River ran green to match the forest, thick and deep.

Elk were grazing in one meadow.

They passed through Sedro Woolley, Lyman, and Hamilton, each town smaller and each mile taking her deeper into the mountains and farther from the likelihood of any help. Her cell phone remained a useless paperweight, and he hadn’t even asked if she needed to pee. At some point he’d have to stop for gas . . .

“Here we are.”

They lurched off the highway onto a road called Challenger and coasted up past trim, modest frame homes set on a hillside above the river. Their lawns were brave bright badges against the darker forest. He braked at a small vineyard with a sign that said Challenger Ridge. Neat rows of grape vines led uphill to a wall of maple and fir. Old farm buildings, barn boards weathered and mossy, formed a cluster on either side of the road. Jake parked and got out, stretched, and walked around to jerk open Rominy’s door.

It creaked, and Barrow took her hand to help her out. His own hand was large, hard, and callused for a newspaperman. He had an athlete’s easy poise. “You can run if you want, but you’ll get a glass of wine if you hear me out.”

She stepped down stiffly. A sleepy collie came over to nose them. The tasting room was a cedar-roofed, single-gable house with wooden porch. It had twin American flags and flower planters made from wine barrels. Picnic tables tilted slightly on grass dotted with clover.

“Where’s Norman Rockwell?”

“The house dates from 1904,” Jake said. “Hobby farm turned medal-winning business. We did a story on them once in our weekend section, and I like their pinot. They do some nice blends with Yakima grapes as well.”

Yep, she’d gotten her wine guy. “There’s no one else here.”

“Kind of the point. It’s quiet on a Monday, and we need space to talk. It helps you had today off to go grocery shopping.”

“That’s me, lucky girl.”

“I know this is hard, Rominy.”

“Comp time. We were working up a presentation until eight
P.M.
Saturday so the boss could give a presentation in the Bay Area while we stayed home. Canceled a date that night to clear my calendar for . . . this.” She shook her head. “I guess skinheads work Mondays.” Her ability to joke surprised her.

“Was it a serious date?”

She glanced. He was genuinely curious. “Not yet.” Her frown was wry. “Not after standing him up. Not now.”

He swallowed. “Hope you like the wine.” He gestured to the buildings with his hand. “Challenger is on the way we need to go.”

Rominy felt like a rabbit uncertain when the trapdoor is raised. The air was clean, insects hummed, birds tweeted. The world remained surprisingly normal. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“This way.”

It was a Porta-Potty—not exactly Napa—but then they went into the tasting room with its overstuffed couches, gas fire, and dark paneling. Cozy as a sleep sack. The young woman who sold them a bottle introduced herself as Cora and Jake chatted her up, almost flirting, which unexpectedly annoyed Rominy. Then the woman pointed them up the hill. “Nice view. Do you need a corkscrew?”