Blood of the Reich

by William Dietrich

  How had Andrews known that? Hood had talked with rival museums but thought he’d kept it a secret.

  “The United States government, Mr. Hood, is offering to give you the necessary paperwork and introductions for your next trip to Tibet, including a reserved flight on the China Clipper, a genuine government-issue Colt .45 automatic, and letters of introduction to the Chinese government, such as it is. We’re giving you diplomatic status to go to Lhasa and, if possible, see this Buddhist pope I understand is cooped up there. Lama, they call him. I thought that was some goat in South America.”

  “The current lama is just a child. There’s a regent, the Reting Rinpoche, or the regent from the Rinpoche monastery.”

  “So we’ll help you see this Reting.”

  “If I track down Raeder and find out what he’s up to.”

  Hale nodded and stubbed out his cigarette on a side table. There was no ashtray; Hood didn’t smoke. “Exactly. Find him, learn what he’s after, and get it first for Uncle Sam. You get an excuse to get out of this mausoleum and serve your country.”

  “At Uncle Sam’s expense?”

  “Actually, we need you to help out with that, given your personal resources and presumed patriotism. America’s wallet is tight. You’ve heard of the Great Depression?”

  “Why, I think that’s the thing that cost my family millions. You want me to spy for you and pay my own way?”

  “I’ve looked at your tax return, Hood. You can afford it. If Vanity Fair was still on the newsstand, you’d be on the cover.”

  The magazine had suspended publication in the depth of the downturn, but Hood got the point. His London coat and tie cost several times that of Hale’s suit, his shoes were Italian, and the dark hair and strong chin gave him, women said, the dash of a matinee idol. He enjoyed looking good. He enjoyed spending money on travel and research. He enjoyed sleeping on the ground while knowing he didn’t have to.

  “You’ve got nerve, Mr. Hale.”

  “I just got a hunch that you’ll jump at a chance to go back to Tibet. Because it’s there, and all that mountaineering crap.”

  Hood was annoyed this obnoxious bureaucrat knew anything about him, but such was the modern world. Privacy eroded, the income tax a plague, gangsters glorified. “What if Raeder’s purpose is innocent? Scientific and cultural?”

  “Put it in your report. But if it isn’t . . .”

  “What?”

  “Then hunt him down. It’s imperative that Germany not win any advantage over there. Kill him, if necessary.”

  “Kill him!”

  Hale stood and brushed ashes from his lap. “We understand that might not be as difficult for you as it sounds.”

  8

  On board the Trieste, Mediterranean Sea

  June 25, 1938

  More than two months before Hood’s meeting with Hale, the Italian liner Trieste had cut across a Mediterranean placid as a pond, an avenue of silver leading away from the starboard side to a fat full moon. The air was as warm as a mother’s breath. Now that they were safely away from land, Raeder had invited the men whom Himmler had recruited to share some schnapps by the anchor capstans. The German quintet was deliberately out of earshot of the other passengers, or any chance a steward might overhear.

  The ship was steaming for Suez, and then beyond to the Red Sea, Indian Ocean, and Calcutta. British India, unfortunately, was the quickest doorway to the forbidden palaces of Tibet. They’d have to bluff and bargain their way through it.

  Raeder’s “knights” were professionals like himself, SS officers who were newly named members of Himmler’s Ahnenerbe, the Reichsführer’s research bureau. They were veterans of expeditions like this one, and experienced mountaineers. While they had packed their black uniforms away until ceremony demanded in Lhasa, they were soldiers, too. The expedition’s crates in the hold included rifles, pistols, and even a new submachine gun called the Erma MP-38, much smaller and lighter than the Thompsons that gangsters used in American movies. There were daggers, explosives, fuses, detonators, and telescopic sights. There were pitons, climbing ropes, and crampons. There were field stoves, scientific instruments, and film cameras. The Germans were ready for partnership, or for war.

  Julius Muller was their geophysicist, whose job was measuring magnetic variations in the earth. The work might be scientifically useful in understanding the earth’s interior because it would be the first time such readings would be taken on the world’s highest plateau. Muller had also used explosives in his research and could be counted on to use his expertise in demolition. The Rhinelander had a skeptic’s instincts, however—he was the kind who reflexively questions authority—so his SS superiors had been happy to let him go. Raeder was determined to keep an eye on the maverick. When the time came, Muller must exhibit complete fealty and obedience.

  Wilhelm Kranz was their anthropologist. One way to tell Aryan from Jew was to measure face and head, giving authorities an objective way of segregating the races. Kranz planned to use his calipers and plastic casts on the Tibetan aristocracy to establish whether they were indeed ancestral cousins of the German race. Kranz was Nazi by creed and need, a devoted reader of race theory. “Maybe I will find an Aryan princess to seduce, eh?” he added with his sense of humor. He was also an expert with the garrote and knife.

  Hans Diels was their archaeologist and historian, the man who’d absorbed what was known about the past of Tibet and who could be called upon to interpret the remains of any lost civilizations they might find. He had a crate of books from Tibetan explorers like Sven Hedin, Nicholas Roerich, and Alexandra David-Neel. Diels had served in the Great War and knew what it was like to fight and kill. “It’s not like the movies. It’s murder. You try to murder them before they can murder you. Pow, from two hundred yards away. And if the artillery can do it for you, so much the better.” He’d been gassed, like Hitler, and at forty-three he was the Old Man of the group.

  Franz Eckells was their cameraman. He’d worked with the celebrated woman director Leni Riefenstahl and photographed for the SS magazine Germanische Leithefte. He was the expedition’s political officer, present to ensure there was no deviation from SS orthodoxy. His superb eyesight had helped win awards for marksmanship. In the Winter Olympics in Bavaria two years before, Eckells had narrowly missed winning a medal in Military Patrol, a skiing and shooting event. He carried himself with catlike grace and confidence, and Raeder looked forward to shooting against him.

  The zoologist liked his comrades’ combination of brains and brawn, curiosity and courage. They were prototypes of the new Germany. The men had signed on for adventure without being exactly certain where they were going or what they were to risk, trusting Himmler. Now Raeder would tell them. The Germans were all a little drunk, and mellow because of it. It was a perfect night, the air silken, music playing from the salon, the ship throbbing purposely. Their wake ran back toward the Fatherland.

  So far the expedition was like a holiday.

  Raeder had taken a whore in Genoa to feed his cravings, and by the time she could report his savagery they were far at sea. He felt satiated and anticipatory.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, raising his glass, “we are carrying the swastika to Lhasa, the capital of Tibet.”

  They nodded, having guessed as much.

  “The British may try to impede us, but we’ll not be deterred. There’s ample reason to believe that the goals of the Tibetan government should coincide with our own.”

  “Which goals?” Diels asked.

  “I’ll get to that. While none of what I’m about to relate is secret, nonetheless Germany is alone in acting on it. Accordingly, what you’re about to hear is for your ears only. It must not be repeated to anyone on this ship or anyone we meet until we are deep in Tibet. Our success depends on our ability to surprise the world. If we succeed, all of you will be heroes to a greater extent than you can possibly imagine.”

  “Is it dangerous?” asked Kranz. The possibility did not necessarily displease
him.

  “Our goal is not to provoke danger, Wilhelm. But, yes, enjoy this leisurely night. Be prepared for hard times once we reach the Himalayas.”

  They nodded again.

  Raeder took a breath. “As you know, except for the polar regions, central Asia is the most remote and mysterious place on earth. It’s also one of the most strategic, the birthplace of empires for the Mongols, Tatars, and Turks. It’s the high ground between Soviets, Chinese, and the British Raj. It has the highest mountains, the driest deserts, and is the source of great rivers like the Indus, Mekong, Yellow, and Ganges. Its inhabitants are trapped in religious superstition, ruled by monks, and yet Tibet is rumored to be a land of astonishing magical powers. Tibet’s technology is primitive, its history is poorly understood, but its religious and mental magic is intriguing.”

  “We’re going to make names for ourselves as scholars,” Diels predicted. “We’re going to learn what they know.”

  “Over the centuries, few Europeans have penetrated this region. I myself have been on its edges with two expeditions, one financed by an American millionaire named Benjamin Hood. The Russian monk Agvan Dorjiev studied in Lhasa. Germany’s Baron von Ungern-Sternberg fought the Communists for the White Russians in Mongolia, and heard tales there. The Pole Ferdinand Ossendowski served with the baron and wrote of wonders he’d seen. Nicholas Roerich led an expedition through Tibet a decade ago, bearing a wish-granting gem entrusted to him by the League of Nations. He hoped to return it to a secret underground kingdom called Shambhala, but never found it. All these explorers brought back curious legends of fabulous ancient kingdoms that were repositories of wisdom and power, ruled by a King of the World, or Dark Lord. Tibetan tradition holds that the armies of secret Shambhala shall someday ride forth to redeem the world. Some Westerners believe that the Shambhalans were refugees from Atlantis and built a hidden city to preserve ancient knowledge.”

  “Does your old friend Hood know all this?” asked Eckells. “Do we have to worry about the American?”

  “He’s not my friend. He’s a playboy, looking for things to occupy his time in New York. Don’t worry about Hood.” There was an edge to Raeder’s voice, but the others had already taken note of his moodiness and temper. They knew better than to ask more.

  “David-Neel saw monks levitate and move from place to place at supernatural speeds,” Hans Diels volunteered instead. “Roerich saw a mysterious oval spheroid speeding across the Asian skies in 1927. It was immense and instantly changed direction, but had no discernible power source.”

  “Superior to any aircraft now in existence,” Raeder agreed. “We’re not traveling ten thousand miles for yak dung, my friends.”

  They laughed.

  “Some of the philosophers behind National Socialism have interpreted these legends and reports,” Raeder went on. “The American Madame Blavatsky, the Austrian Rudolf Steiner, the British medium Alice Bailey, Germany’s Thule Society—all have contributed. If you’ve paid attention in SS seminars, you know their theories of Atlantis, Hyperborea, and Thule. Theosophy, Ariosophy, and other new scientific disciplines have established the history of race conflict and the origins of us Aryans. This is the new German science.”

  They nodded.

  “Blavatsky herself posited three principles: that God’s instrument is an electrospiritual force that embodies the laws of nature, that creation is a cycle of destruction and rebirth, and that all is unified—the soul and the material, the tiny and the great. Manipulating this unity, she preached, is the secret of supernatural power. Our Führer Adolf Hitler himself studied her philosophy and incorporated its teachings into National Socialism. We sail with a rich philosophic tradition.”

  “Heil Hitler,” Eckells breathed quietly, like a prayer.

  “Our ancestors from the north may have branched to Tibet. One of our tasks is to determine if this is true. Wilhelm here will search for racial evidence with his calipers.”

  “Just so he doesn’t measure me,” Muller growled. He thought the head measuring was anthropologic nonsense. Julius had little use for the social sciences.

  “Yes, don’t let him practice one of his plaster masks on you,” said Diels, who’d tried it. “It’s like being suffocated.”

  “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

  North 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.