The Black Gate (7 page)

When the elevator started down, Peter realized that it wasn’t moving vertically. His inner ears told him they were traveling at an angle, and they were moving absurdly fast. He had to hold on to the rail that ran around the car to keep from falling.
 

“Where are we going?” He asked. “I thought the facility was under the
schloss?
”

“Only the first level. Levels Two and Three are two hundred meters to the northwest, deep beneath the Ruhr River.”

Peter remembered the map of the town. The lower levels of the facility would be about a hundred meters south of the viaduct over the river.

The elevator finally began to slow its diagonal descent, making Peter feel absurdly heavy before it came to a smooth, nearly imperceptible stop.

Without a word, the guard opened the door and Mina led him out.

As he had when he stepped out onto Level One, he came to a surprised halt as he was confronted by the scene before him, but for entirely different reasons.

“This is impossible,” he breathed. They were standing on a platform overlooking an enormous spherical cavern that was at least a hundred and fifty meters in diameter. Directly ahead of him was a control center with a dozen or more consoles festooned with gauges, dials, switches, and buttons. To his right, down a set of stairs, was a bank of enormous capacitors. Cables thicker than his arms ran from there into a cable run that disappeared into the rock wall.

To the left, on another platform set down from the command area, was a computational bombe that was at least five times the size of the ones at Bletchley Park that were used to decipher the ENIGMA intercepts.
 

But those details were peripheral to what had truly caught his attention. Suspended horizontally in the center of the cavern on stupendous metal struts anchored in the wall was a gigantic golden ring. A good hundred meters in diameter, three meters thick, and six meters from the outer to inner edge, the ring shimmered under the work lights that surrounded it. A platform bearing a large cage not unlike those found in a circus rested on the concrete floor of the chamber, directly below the center of the ring. A much smaller cage, joined by a catwalk from a brace of stairs that came from below to pass through the control platform, hung from thick cables about twenty meters above the center of the ring.
 

“
Mein Gott
,” Peter whispered, awestruck.

“God has no place here,” a deep voice boomed from his left. Peter turned to see von Falkenstein striding toward him from the steps that led down to the computer platform. He was a tall man, half a head taller than Peter, broad of shoulder and narrow at the waist. In addition to his brilliant mind, Falkenstein had been a champion wrestler in his earlier days, and had obviously taken pains to remain in good shape. “This is my domain.”

Beside him was a man in an SS-
Standartenführer
uniform. Baumann. Like Peter, he had blonde hair and icy blue eyes. He fixed Peter with a predatory gaze, like a hawk might regard the mouse it was about to scoop up and eat.

Peter turned toward Baumann and saluted. “
Heil
Hitler!
Hauptsturmführer
Peter Müller, reporting as ordered, sir.”

Von Falkenstein stopped only long enough to give Peter a frigid once-over with his eyes. Turning to Baumann, he said, “Put him to work immediately. We have no time to waste.” Then he stalked off toward the elevator, Mina trailing behind him.

Feeling foolish, Peter continued to hold his salute, focusing his eyes on the death’s head on Baumann’s hat as the man came to stand before him. “
Standartenführer
Baumann,” Peter said. “What are my orders, sir?”

“Do you know anything about computational devices?”

Peter slowly lowered his arm. “I am familiar with the theory behind them, sir, and have read a number of papers on their design.” That much was certainly true. That he had helped build some of the ones used at Bletchley Park was something Baumann didn’t need to know.

“Then we certainly have use for you. Come.”

“Sir…” Peter gestured at the technological marvels around him. “Sir, what is all this? What…”

Baumann laughed. It was an unpleasant sound that set Peter’s teeth on edge. “You will learn all you need to know very soon, Müller.” His face hardened. “But for now, focus on the task at hand. As the
Herr Professor
said, we have no time to waste, and he is not a man you wish to disappoint.” After a moment, he added, “Nor am I.”

Goggling at his surroundings like a country bumpkin lost among the bright lights of the big city, Peter followed Baumann down to the computer platform. The bombe, the computer, was an enormous rectangular box with hundreds of hand-sized wheels and dozens of gauges on the side facing the command platform. That face of the box was mounted to the rest of the machine on hinges, and had been swung open to reveal rows and rows of vacuum tubes and a spaghetti wilderness of wires within. After a few moments staring at the machine’s inner workings, Peter came to the conclusion that, despite its much greater size, it operated on the same principles as its smaller cousins at Bletchley Park.

Scorch marks marred the rear corner of the machine’s innards, and technicians were replacing wires and inserting new vacuum tubes into a gallery of blackened receptacles

“You are looking at the results of sabotage that has delayed our progress for several weeks now,” Baumann told him. “Despite the best efforts of our technical staff, the device still doesn’t function properly. As brilliant as von Falkenstein may be,” Baumann confided quietly, his lips curving upward in a smirk, “he does not care to understand these devices or how to repair them. He is a theorist, and such work is beneath him, fit only for technicians such as yourself. I hope for your sake that you can repair it. If not, the best outcome for you will be a posting to the Eastern Front.”

Peter gulped. “I understand,
Standartenführer
, but surely the machine’s creator could fix it much more quickly than I could.”

Baumann stepped closer, so close that the visor of his cap brushed Peter’s. “He was the saboteur,” Baumann whispered, “and I killed him for his treachery.” The smirk broadened into a smile as Baumann put a hand on Peter’s shoulder and gave a good natured squeeze. “You are his replacement. I hope you fare better. You should, of course. You’re SS. He was only a mewling civilian.”
 

With that, Baumann whirled on his heel and strode back toward the elevator platform. “Dinner is at eleven o’clock sharp in the Level One dining hall,” he called back over his shoulder. “Tonight is the weekly dinner party. Dress accordingly and be prepared to present your initial assessment to the
Herr Professor
. Do
not
be late.”

Peter looked down at his watch and cursed. He had less than an hour.

DINNER PARTY

As the elevator made its rapid ascent to Level One, Peter leaned against the back wall, trying to gather his wits. Exhaustion threatened to weigh him down, but he was at the same time buoyed by a sense of growing excitement. The computer, like most things German, was a marvel of precision engineering. He had spent his allotted time digging through the guts of the device, trying to ferret out what might be going wrong. But every few minutes he could not help but turn his eyes to the great ring that hung in the chamber as if it were the object of an amazing parlor trick, levitating there on its own, gleaming with reflected light. Could it be? He wondered for the hundredth time. Could the ring truly be a portal through space and time? Had von Falkenstein actually done what he claimed?

Lost in thought, he stumbled as he exited the elevator, earning a quick look from one of the guards. “Damn knee,” Peter muttered as he hurried down the main corridor toward his room. He looked at his watch. He had precisely four minutes to make himself presentable and get to the dining room.

Grasping the polished brass doorknob to his room, he turned it and pushed the door open. He had to simply stand there in the doorway for just a moment to admire the opulence of his accommodations. He’d only stayed at an exclusive hotel once in his life, at the Mayfair in London before the war, and this was every bit as luxurious.
 

But a proper appreciation of his apartment would have to come later. Hurrying to the bathroom, his heels clicking on the polished marble floor, he washed his hands and splashed some cold water on his face in hopes of staving off his exhaustion for a bit longer. Then, opening the wardrobe, he found his extra uniforms. Someone had arranged his clothing with finicky precision. The shirts had been pressed and crisply starched, the other uniform jackets and trousers had been freed of the slightest wrinkle, and his spare boots gleamed with a fresh coat of polish. Even his underwear and socks had been pressed and folded before being arrayed in their respective drawers as if for inspection.

He hurriedly doffed his tunic and stripped off the sweat-soaked shirt he’d worn since leaving England, marveling that it had only been a matter of hours since the B-24 had taken off. After a brief moment of indecision, he grabbed the mess-dress shirt and put it on, along with the accompanying bow tie. He thought briefly about trying to shave, but decided it would be better to be a tad unsightly with his five o’clock shadow than be late to his first official appearance before the
Herr Professor
.
 

As he withdrew the mess-dress jacket from the wardrobe and shrugged it on, his gaze lingered for several heartbeats on the ornate brass bed. It felt like weeks had gone by since he’d slept in a decent bed. With a sigh, he shook his head. “No rest for the wicked.”
 

After making a few swipes of his comb through his matted hair, he left the room and closed the door.

Hobbling down the hall toward the elevator that led to the surface, he turned right at the junction, taking the corridor that would take him to the dining hall. He hurried even faster when he saw that no one else was heading in that direction. Even though his watch said it was 10:59, being the last one to arrive meant he would be considered late.

“Damn,” he hissed.
 

The two SS guards at the gilded double doors opened them like mindless automatons at his approach, and he stepped into a dining room that looked like it had been plucked from a millionaire’s mansion. An enormous oval mahogany table occupied the center of the room, with what he guessed were about two dozen guests arranged around it at precise intervals. A huge chandelier with hundreds of glittering glass facets hung above the center, illuminating the room with dozens of small electric bulbs, and every place was set with fine china and silver.
 

Von Falkenstein occupied the seat at one end of the table, and was involved in a conversation with the bespectacled man to his left. The other seats were occupied mostly by men, although a few women were present, as well. The women all wore formal evening gowns, while the men were dressed in formal evening attire, mess-dress uniforms for the SS officers and tuxedos for the civilians. None of them paid him the least bit of attention.

Peter breathed a small sigh of relief at having made the right choice in clothes, if nothing else. He stood there, surveying the scene, uncertain how to proceed in what would otherwise be a straightforward social situation.

One chair, on the opposite side of the table near the center, was empty, and he could only assume it was meant for him. He had a choice of going around the foot of the table and trying to avoid von Falkenstein for the moment, or taking the tiger by the tail.

Taking a deep breath, he headed toward the head of the table.

“Ah!” Baumann exclaimed from his seat at von Falkenstein’s immediate right. “Our hero has decided to join us. Please, Müller, be seated.” Baumann threw a glance at the civilian who sat beside him. The man instantly rose to his feet and moved down to the empty chair Peter had intended to take.
 

It was as if Peter had stepped through a curtain and was now visible to the assembled illuminati of the project, all of whom paused in their conversations to look at him.
 

“Thank you,
Standartenführer
.” Peter limped around the table, taking the proffered seat. A waiter in white livery whisked away the as yet unused china and silverware and another waiter placed a new setting. Yet another stepped forward as part of the carefully orchestrated ballet and filled Peter’s wine glass.

As Peter sat down, he saw that he was directly across the table from Mina. If she had appeared beautiful before, she was absolutely radiant now, even with the scar on her cheek, which was partially concealed with makeup. Her long blond hair was in an elegant coif, and she wore a simple black dress that hugged her body. In an irony of Nazi ideology that did not escape him, she was the only other person in the room beside himself and Baumann who had blond hair and blue eyes. She favored him with a perfunctory nod of her head, but nothing more.

“
Herr Professor
,” Baumann said to von Falkenstein as he put a hand on Peter’s shoulder, “you met him briefly when he arrived earlier, of course, but please allow me to formally introduce the latest addition to our merry company,
Hauptsturmführer
Peter Müller, fresh from Berlin.”

“Professor von Falkenstein, sir,” Peter said, “it is a great honor to meet you.”

Von Falkenstein graced him with a flick of his eyes and an absent nod, as if Peter were nothing more than a new file clerk.
 

“I heard your lecture in Berlin in 1938,” Peter went on, “and followed your work before then. It was a great pity that I wasn’t able to find out any more about your theories after that. You seemed to have disappeared as if through an Einstein-Rosen bridge.”

The room instantly fell silent. Across from him, Mina sat rigid as a statue, her eyes fixed on the china plate before her. The stewards who were just bringing out the first course stopped in their tracks. Beside Peter, Baumann quietly hissed through his teeth.

Von Falkenstein slowly turned his head back to face Peter, who forced himself to return the older man’s gaze. “Is that so?” The professor said in the baritone voice that Peter well remembered, even now. Von Falkenstein was a captivating public speaker. “And what did you think of my theories,
Hauptsturmführer
?”