Tomb of Odin (Order of the Black Sun Book 9)

by P. W. Child

  “So, where do you live, Thomas?” Sam asked cordially, trying to kill time.

  “Germany,” the reserved Goliath replied coldly.

  “And what do you do for a living?” Sam persisted despite Nina’s furtive gestures for him to relent.

  Thomas stared into Sam’s eyes with a piercing glare, “I kill explorers.”

  The atmosphere in the car alternated between amusement and unpleasantness, because what Thomas answered was probably true. Sam could not think of anything to ask after that, that would benefit anyone, so he turned on the radio and made small talk with Nina about the climate. Then they moved on to old stories of when Sam was in Sweden to report on a suspected assassination of a high commander in Stockholm in 2005.

  Thomas listened while he stared out the window. Suddenly he looked at Sam and frowned, “The assassination of Walter Dahl?”

  “Oh, you heard of it?” Sam asked, pleasantly surprised.

  “That was an assassination, but nobody could prove it,” Thomas said.

  “One of yours?” Purdue asked nonchalantly.

  “No, Mr. Purdue. I only kill to protect vital secrets. I do not kill good military leaders for their seat in power,” Thomas told Purdue. “That is what Lieutenant Beinta Dock does, and now she and her bitch Hilda Kreuz are running the Vril Society. Who do you think exiled my brothers and me?”

  Nina was astonished. So you are a rogue? You and your . . . brothers?” she asked, turning around in the passenger seat to face Sam and Thomas.

  “We are brothers because we served in the same battalion and were admitted for experimentation by the SS as we served at the same time. But we are not related. Stabsfeldwebel Rudi von Hammersmach, Hauptsturmführer Deiter Baum, and Unterfeldwebel Johann Kemper were my comrades in my company. We were stationed in Poland first, then Sweden. They sent me to Sweden because my father was Swedish and I spoke the language. And finally we were deployed on secret missions in India during Hitler’s visit to Tibet. Secrets were our business, and that was why we were selected for Shambhala,” Thomas rambled in his deep, even tone. But the other three occupants of the car were spellbound.

  “What year were you born, Thomas . . . ?” Nina asked.

  “Sturmbannführer Thomas Heinrich Thorsen, born August 6, 1911, in Hamburg,” the giant answered slowly, his blinded eyes searching the floor as if it had been ages since he spoke his own name. He fell silent after that and the others left him alone until they reached Gamla Uppsala or Old Uppsala.

  “We need to get to the church, Dave, the stone church,” Nina instructed, checking her notes. The three discrepancies on the list she found in the train pointed to the town of Gamla Uppsala, referring to the little church that was reputedly built over the site of an ancient Pagan temple. The temple honored the Norse gods—Odin, Thor, and Freyr—gods who were once men—according to the accounts of Adam of Bremen in his 11th-century publication.

  Most texts from the Middle Ages about this subject attested to the local grove beside the present church being the site of human sacrifices—where an evergreen tree stood above a spring, and every nine years a live man would be thrown in—to determine if the wishes of the people would be granted by the gods. It was the place where nine males of every living creature would be hung as sacrifices and it was sacred to the heathens.

  The third clue was kyrka, or “church.”

  “What happens when we get to the little church?” Purdue asked.

  “We have to find something inside that refers to the golden chain or the old temple or kings perhaps interred. I suppose the Valknut will show us where it is,” she muttered, checking her phone for information on the old temple that was apparently destroyed in the 12th century.

  Thomas opened his mouth as if to utter something in turn, but he abandoned the effort. Nina had turned her mind away from hating him since she learned how special Thomas really was, apart from being very old and looking like a forty year old.

  “Thomas? Do you know something I don’t?” she asked respectfully.

  He gave her a long look, deciding if he wished to help. As they drove through the soaking landscape of Old Uppsala, traversing the rolling emerald hills and mounds where kings were said to be buried, he cleared his throat.

  “In the Gothic era, especially, many churches were decorated with chains hanging from their gables, so it is not so unusual that you would have to look for a symbol. Most of them just hung around the actual building,” he enlightened them. “The temple you refer to was said to bear a chain of gold, but it was dismissed as exaggeration.”

  “Hey, where do you think this chain comes from, pal?” Sam asked enthusiastically.

  “How do you know that this is from the sagas of Adamus Bremenus?” Thomas asked.

  “The inscriptions on the smaller section we have pointed us here. It could not be coincidence that it would take gold to open the Tomb of Odin. He was after all, a god,” Purdue speculated.

  “I am a god. I don’t care for gold,” the colossus mentioned nonchalantly. “The problem with modern times is that people adorn everything in empty treasures, like gold and precious stones. They create images of old gods that depict virility and beauty, when they were fat alcoholics of ripe age. What made of them gods, my friends, was their unshakable loyalty to the protection of their people, their bravery in battle, and their unwavering wisdom.”

  None of the others dared contest Thomas at this point. They could not deny that he nurtured a deeper vision, a higher understanding of things.

  “Real treasure is brotherhood, bravery, water, fire, air, intellect, and poetry,” Thomas lectured them. There was no doubt that he knew, firsthand, the ways of Odin.

  Chapter 31

  “Her name is Hilda Kreuz, a German national trained by some clandestine organization that promotes the development of scientific and technological supremacy in the youth of Europe,” Special Agent Lorna McLean reported to Paddy over Skype.

  He and Cassandra sat on the couch of the TV room where Cassie was attacked by Hilda that night, talking to Lorna at the Glasgow office.

  Paddy had contacted MI6 headquarters to assure that Detective Inspector Williams made contact. He wanted to be sure that Williams handed over the device that had to be analyzed by Exova. Shortly after his call to his superior, his MI6 colleague, Lorna, Skyped him to inform him that the woman who attacked Cassandra and tried to kill him in the hospital was suspected of killing DI Williams the night before.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” Paddy sniffed, “how many more will she attack? How did he die, Lorna?”

  “He was en route to the local precinct, because he called the station commander that he was filing a request to get permission . . . to go to Glasgow to speak to Mrs. Lancashire and officially submit the device to her care. But from the way they found his vehicle abandoned only two miles from you, we assume he ran out of petrol. His throat was slit and the device missing,” she reported.

  “And the hospital security and staff where I left her?” Paddy asked. He could not believe that the assassin could get out of the predicament he left her in so quickly so that she could drive to his house and find Williams still there.

  “Two dead, four badly injured. She branded a semiautomatic and they could not impede her escape before the cops arrived,” she sighed.

  The landline rang in the kitchen, and Cassie excused herself to answer the call.

  Lorna shook her head and sighed, “Pat, I’m so sorry about your old friend and partner.”

  “Thanks, Lorna,” Paddy said, but he could not hold back the tears. It was not so much about Williams dying in the line of duty for what Paddy discovered, but for all the innocent people who perished while getting in the way of this evil woman. Had he only relinquished it, all these victims would still be alive.

  “Pat, don’t be so hard on yourself. You did your job and they did theirs. Just relax, okay?” Lorna consoled her colleague.

  “I wish I could. But I . . .” he stuttered. His expression changed positive
ly and he asked, “Lorna, this organization Hilda Kreuz belongs to . . . where is it situated?”

  “Stockholm, Sweden. I would tell you the name but,” she smiled sheepishly, “regrettably I cannot pronounce it.”

  Paddy smiled, “No worries.”

  “I have to sign off, Pat. Talk to you soon!” Lorna smiled and waved. She waited for Paddy to wave back and then ended the call.

  “It doesn’t matter what her organization is called, because I’m going to rain hell on that little bitch and not even God will save her this time,” he vowed, looking at his own reflection in the black computer screen.

  “You will do no such thing, Patrick Smith,” Cassandra said from behind him. He swung around and saw his beautiful wife eavesdropping. For the first time in days he looked at her, really looked at her. Practically fully recovered, she was staring at him from the doorway with two mugs in her hands. “Not before I give you Nina Gould’s phone number so that she and Sam can help you.”

  Paddy’s face lit up, “What?”

  “She and Sam called a few minutes ago, asking if we are all right. Guess where they are, as we speak?” she smiled with a raised eyebrow. “Sweden.”

  “You are shitting me!” he grinned.

  “And they know someone who knows this Hilda Kreuz witch . . . and hates her with a passion,” Cassandra gloated.

  Chapter 32

  “Paddy is on his way here,” Nina smiled.

  “Who is Paddy, if I may inquire?” Thomas asked in his heavy accent.

  “The man who had your precious generator all this time, my friend,” Sam revealed. “But being in possession of it almost killed his wife and him.”

  “According to his wife, Thomas, the very woman you have told us about in Stockholm, now has the generator,” Nina informed Thomas. He shook his head in defeat, looking utterly vexed.

  “Do you know where Hilda Kreuz is?” Sam asked him.

  “I do. I was Beinta Dock’s bodyguard and have been at their headquarters many times,” he said. “Why?”

  “Well, if you can tell our friend where to go to . . . um . . . find her,” Nina said enticingly, “our friend could perhaps reward you with what he takes off her, something you have been trying to get your hands on?”

  Thomas looked sobered, his fire renewed. What was probably the closest thing to a smirk he could muster, Thomas affirmed, “It is a deal. Oh God, is it a deal!”

  Nina called Paddy at his home and gave Thomas the phone, where he disclosed pivotal information and locations.

  “Special Agent Patrick Smith, you need to handle the device with a specific and special procedure.” Thomas said over the phone. “A box of fish fingers? Bist du verrückt?” he bellowed in astonished shock. “Nein, nein. You have to handle it like this. Write this down, bitte.”

  Nina and Purdue chuckled.

  “It makes you think, doesn’t it?” he contemplated.

  “What? she smiled.

  “Look at this man who threatened you, tried to kill you, now your ally, helping our ally against a common enemy of them both—the two strangers conversing on the phone right now,” Purdue smiled.

  “It does make you think,” Sam chipped in, passing them each some local beer he picked up in Uppsala when he went to get food. “There is no such thing as friend or foe. If anything in the world is not just black or white, it is the fact that disagreement, opposition, or loyalty is never certain. Anyone has the capacity, circumstances permitting—”

  “Understanding permitting,” Nina added.

  “Aye, that too, to be anyone’s friend. War and discord is relative, subjective to the circumstances, their reasons and their objectives. Once the dynamics change, once the reasons and needs change, so do the relationships among people.”

  “Precisely what I was going to say, Sam,” Purdue nodded enthusiastically, raising his beer, “but you said it better, more eloquently, as any celebrated writer would.”

  “Two men on opposite sides of a religious war, sworn enemies for that purpose, could very well side as comrades at the mention of a football team or a band they admire,” Purdue said. “Look at this—a Nazi officer helping a British officer to destroy a common enemy.”

  Thomas felt his way back toward where they were sitting on the ancient stone wall fence, having completed his call with Special Agent Patrick Smith.

  “Christ, I feel bad about blinding him now,” Sam admitted. Nina took his hand and laid her head affectionately against his chest.

  “You had to, or else we’d all be dead, Sam,” she comforted him.

  “Right,” Thomas announced, “the British Secret Intelligence Service is closing in on Stockholm and a Frau Lancashire there apparently promised to return my device to me.”

  “Aye, that’s Paddy for ya,” Sam smiled. “Have a beer, Thomas.”

  “And we should hasten,” Purdue said, “I want to get into the church before nightfall. With this incessant rain the skies are already too dark to see properly.”

  Thomas frowned, “Feels terrible not to see properly, doesn’t it?”

  Sam choked on his beer, but Nina lightly tapped her hand on his leg to soothe his guilty conscience.

  “Mr. Purdue, please don’t do this. This is not the way to wisdom. It is a certain way to war. Diplomacy means nothing with the people you are seeking to disturb, I assure you. They are not human. They have no capacity for mercy.”

  “They are a myth,” Purdue said indifferently.

  Thomas roared in frustration. “Look at me. I am a product of what they can achieve with a mere man! I have inhuman strength, and my aging is retarded by ten years to one. I shall not even deign to enter into wits with you to prove my point!”

  “You misunderstand, Thomas, I have to know if Agartha exists and I can only do that if I go into that church,” Purdue said. “I have plenty of gold, and money to buy more. I promise you, my intent is not to look for treasures.”

  “What is the point of knowing it exists and not trying to utilize it for your own gain?” the giant pressed Purdue.

  “The technology they have could revolutionize the way the world runs, Thomas,” Purdue argued, but the German monster only grew more impatient with Purdue’s hardheadedness.

  “Do you not understand? Their technology is for the subjugation of humankind, Purdue! It is developed with vril, tapped from the inverse and inexhaustible energy of the black sun itself!” Thomas explained with a rapidly waning fuse. “Not only can humankind not fathom the superior technology of the gods below, but humans could never wield this kind of power without destroying everything. And by opening that door you will give them reason to unleash their intent and power over this entire planet.”

  “According to theory, that is exactly what they plan to do—to take over the world and destroy us ‘lower’ life forms,” Nina mentioned.

  “Yes, but they are still preparing for it. There is no need for you three to make that happen two hundred, maybe three hundred, years too early!” Thomas pleaded. His pearled eyes darted profusely up and down, left and right from his disappointment.

  Silence prevailed for a few minutes as they all finished their meals and beers, all clearly pondering the facts set out in the argument. All they heard was the sound of thunder far in the distance while the fresh cool rain washed away all the dust from the leaves, bark, and stones. At once Sam, Nina, and Purdue saw the world’s beauty in the rain showers of Old Uppsala, seat of ancient Norse gods and Scandinavian kings, people of old, of wisdom, and with respect for their creation.

  ~~~~~

  When they walked into the lovely, modest little church, they found that they were alone there.

  “No tourists like to come here in the rain,” said an old vicar with a difficult Swedish mumble. “They all want to see the Domkyrka in Uppsala instead.”

  “Oh, no, we prefer the less-elaborate buildings,” Nina smiled.

  “Well then, welcome, Scotland,” he replied and went about his business of replacing some candles.


  The old vicar had a pale complexion, and he wore black clothing, but he boasted laugh lines and small blue eyes that gave him a distinctly mischievous appearance. His long gray hair was tied back and stood out against the dark hue of his cloak. Much like Jari Koivusaari, his beard was braided down to his chest and he wore tiny spectacles that rested close to the tip of his nose.

  As small as the church was, its interior was magnificent. Tall, arched ceilings ran together, their reinforced beams crossing in the middle. All the masonry and the roof inside consisted of cream and tan-colored stone inscribed with darker ornate vines and runes adorning the pillars and posts. Chandeliers hung suspended from the ceilings over the aisle, covered in tan carpeting that flowed toward the shrine of saints cast in gold. Above the shrine, suspended on wooden beams between the summit of the dome and the top of the walls, was the wooden crucifix with a golden statue of Jesus Christ.

  Sam nudged Purdue again, like he did on the buried train in Poland. His eyes motioned to the back of the church, where two sets of wooden, double doors formed a lobby. The floor was of stone tiling and the walls at the entrance were slightly stained from age and wear. Behind the last pew in the church, Purdue saw what Sam was aiming at—only because he knew what to look for.

  The Valknut was etched professionally into the far corner of the pew’s back rest, as was another on the opposite side. It was peculiar, because none of the other pews held such inscriptions. Casually Sam and Purdue strolled to the pew, admiring and discussing the architecture of the building while Nina was taking pictures of the saints on the shrine.

  “Look, under this pew there is a distinct crack line all around the width and length of the thing. And . . .” Purdue showed Sam with a pointing finger, “the panels under the seat surface. See that?”

  Sam took a closer look. In copper, there were hooks fixed at every few inches of the length of the wooden panels.