Blood of the Reich

by William Dietrich

  “What if Great-Grandpa Ben lured him here? Or was hiding here, or the satchel was here, so Agent Hale comes up the mountain . . .”

  “Or was killed at the cabin and brought up here. Carried like a sack of potatoes.”

  “I don’t think my ancestor would do that. Can you imagine carrying a corpse up that mountain? And wouldn’t the OSS have come looking for him?”

  “And found Benjamin Hood. And . . . killed him.” Jake stood up.

  “That’s pretty melodramatic.”

  “Well, all we know is that everybody died. Except your grandmother. Except maybe she was murdered, too, eventually.”

  Rominy shivered. “So who was her mother? Who did Hood marry?”

  “You don’t have to be married to have a child, Rominy.” He stopped shuffling the papers and pulled out a photograph. It was a faded shot of a woman standing next to an old biplane, in flying helmet and pants. “Take her, for example.”

  Rominy craned to look. “She’s pretty. You think she’s my great-grandmother?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Who is she?”

  He turned it over. “It says, Beth Calloway, 1938. Maybe there’s more in here about her.”

  “This is so strange, finding people who’ve been dead so long and having some obscure connection to them.”

  “Not obscure. A blood connection. Blood is thicker than water. Descent is important. Ancestry is important.”

  “Don’t talk about blood down here. It’s creepy.”

  “Historically, it used to mean everything. You were who your parents were. Children inherited the sins of their fathers. Now genealogy is just a hobby, nations are mongrelized, race is politically incorrect. But blood is who we really are.”

  “No. Too confining.”

  “I’m talking about family, Rominy. DNA. Self-identity. Belonging. As an orphan, you should understand that better than anyone.”

  “Belonging? To a race? Yes, Jake, politically incorrect.”

  “You want to know how to become a messiah? Tell your followers they’re chosen. Jews, born-again Christians, Muslim fundamentalists, it doesn’t matter. Tell them they’re chosen and they’ll follow you anywhere. You think Hitler didn’t understand that? People long to be told they’re special. Blood, my dear, makes the world go round.” He turned the flashlight so it lit his face from below, drawing deep shadows like a Halloween mask. “The trick,” he said in a deep voice, “is deciding who’s really chosen.”

  She looked at him in confusion. Now he was frightening her. “Who are you, Jake?”

  He turned the light away, becoming a silhouette in the dark. “I’m a reporter, remember? I just try to see the world clearly, without all the self-censorship crap that goes on these days. We don’t burn witches, we fire the blunt from media jobs. Well, I speak to truth. Isn’t that what journalism is all about?”

  “Why did you take the battery out of my cell phone?”

  “What?” He cocked his head.

  “I found it in the trash this morning. That’s why my cell wouldn’t work, wasn’t it? You’d taken the battery out.”

  “I took the battery out because it wouldn’t work. I was trying to fix it. When it was obvious it was really dead, I tossed it. What, you think I sabotaged your phone?”

  “Yes! Somehow. Way back at Safeway. I wanted to call and I couldn’t.”

  “Because your battery was already dead! How could I get your battery out? Do I look like Houdini? Come on, don’t be paranoid. We’re trying to help each other here. Figure this out together.”

  She sighed. He was right, the battery was dead. “I’m so confused.”

  “Jesus, I’m not. Did last night mean nothing?”

  “Jake . . .” she groaned.

  “I’m falling for you, Rominy. You’ve got to trust me on this. We’re onto something big, really big. It’s going to make all the difference. Come on, let’s walk back to the shaft we fell down where it’s light, and look at what’s in the satchel.”

  She was consumed with doubt. She was falling for him, too, at the same time every instinct told her this was way too sketchy. Hadn’t she been wary the first time she spied him? But now he looked a little wounded, boyish, and she still buzzed inside from the night and the morning. Which instinct was true?

  “How did you get that scar?”

  “What scar?”

  “On your chin. Like you’ve been in a fight.”

  He looked at her as if she were a lunatic. “I flipped my bike when I was ten.”

  Now she felt foolish. She flushed. If he was some kind of rogue, why was he trapped down here with her?

  Deep breaths. One step at a time. Get out of here, and then think. Everything was happening too fast. She needed a day—heck, a month—to decompress. To figure out if anything with this guy was real. She was falling in love with a man she didn’t entirely trust, which wasn’t smart, cubicle girl. Get gone, get focused, get clear.

  Meanwhile, the satchel was a treasure trove. Maps, diagrams, diaries, photos—the raw remains of a strange, truncated life. There was a crude drawing of mountains with a bowl-like valley, with coordinates. A diagram drawn in a circle, with arrows and boxes. And a journal with the title page reading, For the heir, only. Jake solemnly handed it to her. “I think he means you.”

  She thumbed through it, unable to resist excitement. This was real. The handwriting was surprisingly neat, almost feminine. Well, they did teach penmanship in those days. The diary appeared to be about some kind of journey, fleeing from some terrible thing. But also notes to return there, When the time is right. And underneath it, Wisdom before invention.

  Maybe this would explain the whole story.

  Her old life seemed so trivial.

  Jake was peering at the map. “My God, I think he’s telling exactly where we need to go.”

  “Go? I thought we were already here, in a hole in the ground.”

  “No, in Tibet, to find what he found.”

  “Tibet! That’s the other side of the world.”

  “Don’t you see? His death, your relatives’ deaths, the skinheads—it all must come back to this. There’s something wonderful there, something huge, and it’s been waiting for you—the heir to get into this safety deposit box, the heir to find this mine—to go find it again. We’re supposed to go to Tibet and retrace his journey.” His eyes were alight. He’d found his treasure map.

  “Jake, we can’t even get out of this mine. We’re going to crumble into bones like poor old Duncan Hale, and some other descendant is going to find this satchel and our stash from Summit Bank.”

  He laughed. “We haven’t had time to make a descendant yet.”

  “Actually, we have, except I’m on the pill.”

  “There you go. But look, if we’re going to Tibet we’d better focus on getting out.” He stood, peering up at the shaft. She didn’t understand his confidence. He didn’t seem like a newspaper nerd, he seemed like a commando.

  “I’m not going to Tibet, Jake. I’m going to where there’s a shower.”

  “They have showers in Tibet. Listen. I’m going to boost you up and you’re going to grab that ledge and that root. If you can pull yourself up into the chimney you can wedge, back against one side and feet on the other, and inchworm your way up.”

  “Then what?”

  “Go get help. There’s rope in my truck. You’ll be back for me by tomorrow morning. Unless you were really dissatisfied with my performance.”

  “I don’t want to go down the mountain alone!”

  “Well, maybe you can throw down a log I can climb out on. First step is to get you up there.”

  She sighed. What choice did they have?

  He was strong, surprisingly so, and he hoisted her up on his shoulders. “Can you reach?”

  “Just barely . . .”

  “Try to pull yourself up. I’ll push your feet.”

  It was like her worst memory of gym class. “Jake, I don’t have any upper-body strength .
. .”

  “Try, Rominy. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  She reached, straining, and he took the soles of her shoes in his hands so she wobbled as she tried to pull herself up into the shaft. It felt like a cheerleader stunt. She got so her waist was even with the bottom of the hole, grabbed a root, and pulled. Her legs thrashed now that she was above his reach, arms shaking. She was hanging helplessly, looking for something higher to grab. Nothing! Then it was as if a pin burst her effort. All strength left her and she fell back into his arms. He sat down hard, with a woof.

  “I can’t. Jake, I’m sorry, but I just can’t lift myself.” Her voice shook.

  “We’ve got to try.”

  “I did try.”

  “Can you lift me?”

  But that was even more useless. She tried to boost him but he was nearly two hundred pounds of hard muscle, and it was like trying to hoist a piano. They collapsed together, Rominy crying.

  They were going to die in this hole.

  They lay awhile, panting.

  And then there was the baying of some hounds. He sat up. “Listen!”

  The baying came closer. There was the sound of thrashing brush, and then frantic barking. There were dogs at the lip of the shaft.

  Rominy sat up, too, drying her cheeks as hope filled her. Rescue?

  “Thunder! Damnation! What the hell did you find?” It was Delphina Clarkson, her new neighbor!

  “Mrs. Clarkson, we’re down here!” Jake called.

  “That you? What’d you do with that girl?”

  “She’s down here, too. Can you call Search and Rescue?”

  “I don’t need no Search and Rescue. Hell, I’d be raccoon meat if I waited for the likes of them. I know this hill like my own La-Z-Boy.” She peered over the lip. “Missy! He treating you right?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Clarkson, we fell in accidentally. We need help getting out!”

  “Yeah, let me tie a rope to this tree. City folk!”

  A line slithered down. Jake boosted her once again and this time, with something firmer to hold on to and the promise of salvation above, she managed to climb. Once she got her feet and legs working in the shaft, it was much easier. Jake was right behind her, hauling himself and boosting her when she needed it, while also carrying both their packs and the satchel.

  They crawled out of the hole, dogs sniffing and yipping, and collapsed, the sky a miracle.

  “What the devil is down there?” Mrs. Clarkson asked.

  “Old gold mine, I think,” Jake said. “We found this depression and wondered what it was and then boom, cave-in. We’re really lucky you came along.”

  “I’ll say. What are you doing over here? You’re way off the trail. You know there’s a cliff right there?” She looked at them suspiciously.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The dogs tried to lick Rominy, and she pushed them away.

  “I tracked you with my hounds,” Delphina said. “Started with your truck at the trailhead and followed you on up.”

  “Thank goodness, but why did you do that?” Rominy asked.

  “Because you’re all over the news, Missy. There was a bomb down in Seattle, and nobody knows where the heck you went or who you’re with, be it city slicker here or the Taliban. You got half the cops in the state looking for you. You know that?”

  “I had no idea. Everything has been happening so fast . . .” She realized Jake had never played the truck radio. She couldn’t even remember if it had one.

  “Yep, you’re lucky I had the sense to hunt you. Me’n my dogs, here.”

  “We’ll pay you for your trouble,” Jake assured.

  “Oh, no need for that.” She picked up her shotgun and swung it on them. “There’s a fifty-thousand-dollar reward out for the two of you.” She nodded. “They think you might be terrorists, or worse. Neighbors, you are under arrest.”

  32

  Shambhala, Tibet

  October 3, 1938

  Hood dared not fire, lest he hit the woman. The Germans were under no such compunction, and muzzle flashes blazed in the blackness. Luckily the American had thrown himself flat, and bullets ricocheted with an awful whine while Raeder shouted at them to stop.

  “Listen! Listen for his footsteps!”

  Sound echoed away. Hood inched across the floor.

  “I think we hit him, Kurt.”

  “You almost hit me, you idiot.”

  “Do you have the girl?”

  “No, she bit me!”

  “Scheisse!”

  “Where’s the staff?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I can’t see a thing. I didn’t know it could be so dark.”

  “We’re dead men. Muller was right.”

  “Shut up, shut up! Listen!”

  Something rolled across the floor. Hood snaked on his belly toward it and reached. The staff. As his hand closed upon the smooth crystal, it was as if his finger was inserted in a light socket. A jolt shuddered through his arm and he winced.

  The staff glowed, illuminating their tableau.

  Keyuri was on her belly, a dozen feet away.

  The Germans turned.

  Raeder, his rifle on the floor, sprang with a knife, his boot coming down on Hood’s wrist that held the .45. The SS dagger swept down, to pinion his other hand, which held his staff.

  Hood twisted as the knife struck, feeling a sharp pain in his ring finger and meanwhile losing hold of his gun. Then Raeder’s boot slipped off his wrist and stamped on the staff.

  There was a bang, like a short circuit. Some mysterious but stupendous energy kicked the German backward and he fell and skidded, with a grunt.

  The American picked up the strange weapon in a bloody grip, wincing, and swept it toward the Nazis, not knowing what to expect.

  Something bright, hot, and terrifying stabbed out. It also stabbed in, to Hood’s injured hand, and he shouted.

  There was a boom like thunder and lightning that was blinding. The Germans shrieked, hands to their eyes and ears, frozen in the flash. It was like looking into the sun. Then there was a crack on the ceiling and stone rained down, slamming against the floor and bouncing. The staff and Hood went skidding away across the floor, shot like a puck, his teeth clenched in agony. Finally it was dark again, except his eyes were filled with sparks from the dazzle. He could dimly hear the Germans shouting, and he wondered if any had been hit by the debris. What had happened? It was as if the staff had a life of its own, or as if his thoughts had merged with its properties to eject some kind of thunderbolt. If this is what Shambhala held, he wanted no part of it.

  Yet he didn’t let go. As his night vision returned, he realized the thunder stick still glowed dimly.

  Light footsteps, and someone seized his arm. “Hurry!” It was a hiss. Keyuri. “I have your pistol.”

  “Then shoot them.”

  “I tried. It’s jammed.”

  Hood staggered up. The third finger on his left hand was hanging by a tendon, blood gushing. The hand, seemingly electrocuted as well as sliced, felt on fire. Meanwhile his gun hand had been stomped on. The room echoed with German curses. Keyuri clutched his arm and forced the tip of the staff to the ground to mute its illumination, like an aisle light in a dim theater. Numbly, he followed her pull. He thought at first that she’d lead him past the bones and onto the main causeway they’d descended. But the Germans were between them and the door. Instead she was pulling him toward one of the tunnels that led away from the side of the machine.

  There was the crack of a revolver and a bullet whined off machinery. They ducked around a massive metal arm, making themselves invisible, just as the submachine gun went off with a stutter. More bullets pinged and buzzed.

  “Stop! They’re ricocheting toward us!”

  “But they’re getting away!” The Germans began arguing some more.

  “Where are we going?” Hood whispered to Keyuri.

  “Where we close one door and open another, if you can use that magic staff again.�
� They entered the tunnel, a stumbling trot taking them along horizontal pipes. He looked back. There was a faint whitish glow; the German light sticks must have reignited. Hood’s body ached, and he mentally cursed Raeder. That madman made a mess of everything.

  “They’ve gone the wrong way!” he heard the German cry. “We’ve got them trapped.”

  “Leave them,” another said. “Muller was right. This place is evil.”

  “No, I want her and I want the staff. She knows more than she’s telling!”

  Keyuri caught Hood’s arm and they stopped a moment, looking back. “Seal us in.”

  He looked at her questioningly.

  “There’s supposed to be a second door, a back door, somewhere deep inside this underground city. Use the staff, seal us in, and we’ll look for it.”

  “This is legend?”

  “This is our only chance.”

  He lifted the staff again, feeling energy surge through it and him, his arm shaking. It glowed bright, and he heard the Germans shout and begin to run toward them. Blood dripped from his grip to the floor. Gritting his teeth, he aimed toward the ceiling of the tunnel entrance. Another crack and boom, the recoil excruciating, but then with a rumble a section of rock roof gave way and crashed onto the pipes at the tunnel mouth, a cave-in that blocked that entrance. Dust blew back at them, grit swirling.

  Hood’s head ached and his ears rang. They were in a tunnel about ten feet high that stretched as far as he could see, large pipes running through it at breast height.

  “Bravo,” he said. “Sealed us in. Trapped like moths in a jar.”

  “And them out, for a while.”

  The staff’s illumination was dimmer than before. Was it weakened like a battery? Keyuri pulled at him again and they went on, deeper into Shambhala.

  “Where’s this second door?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think this fire stick is losing its power. Will its light go out?”