“Go ahead, Marty,” Ira prompted, his breath clouding in front of his mouth. “Let’s do it.”
“Just a second.” Bishop faced his crew, his Minicam shut off. “You know, it’s funny. I didn’t want to come here at all. I thought my dad was being a pain in the ass for asking me. But now that we’re here, about to enter the base, I’m really glad I did this.” His voice was thick with emotion. “I want to thank all of you for doing this with me. Ira, I know you’re getting paid for this, but you’ve already done more than your share. And, Mercer,” he said with a smile, “without you we’d still be on the surface trying to dig our way down here with snow shovels.”
The second door opened as if it had been oiled just the day before. Their flashlights cut puny slashes through the gloom. Marty had a powerful lamp attached to his camera but there was still more shadow than light. The thin crust of ice on the floor was frozen condensation, the icy legacy of the men who had breathed here all those decades ago. It was so silent, they could hear every footfall they made.
Each of them was subdued by what they were doing, and their chills were not entirely caused by the freezing temperature. It was eerie inside the base. Everything felt muted, as though it was happening at a slower pace than reality. Time had forgotten Camp Decade, and yet they half expected to hear voices or see someone approach from the shadows and demand to know what they were doing here. It was a place for ghosts.
Beyond the entrance lay a short hall that branched at a T-juncture. The camp’s entrance had been in the center of the administration area. To the left would be the garage, storage, and reactor room. To the right would be the dorms and laboratories. Without the need to take a vote, the party turned right. The walls were painted plywood backed with a layer of insulation and corrugated metal. In the few places where they had been torn by ice, piles of snow had accumulated on the floor. There were also a few areas where the roof had given way slightly, allowing ice and snow to form solid mounds that nearly blocked the hallway. Many of the blockages were small and could be easily stepped over, but one nearly choked the entire hallway, forcing the men to clamber over on their bellies.
They stopped at each of the doors they came across and flashed their lights around the offices they found. “Time warp,” Ira commented once. The Air Force had left a lot of equipment behind like old manual typewriters, a mechanical mimeograph machine, and furniture that dated to World War II.
“My dad told me it was cheaper for them to leave this stuff here than fly it back to the States. All they took was their personal effects, the reactor, and the five Sno-Cats kept in the garage,” Marty clarified.
“You’re sure about the reactor?” Ira asked, half joking.
“Of course,” Mercer said sarcastically. “This is the government we’re talking about.”
They reached the juncture that bisected one leg of the base. Turning left, Marty led the trio toward the dormitories. There were eight of them on each side of a central hallway; each was an identical room about thirty feet by thirty feet with rows of matching bunk beds. The soldiers who were stationed here had taken their footlockers but there were still a great many personal articles left behind. Near a few of the beds were pinups of women who today would be considered plump and whose bathing suits showed less skin than the average cocktail dress.
The men passed through a mess hall and another space that had been the enlisted men’s rec room, which included several pool tables and card tables. Beyond the rec room, the door at the end of the hallway ended in a tiled bathroom large enough to provide for the needs of a few hundred men.
“The officers must have been stationed in another part of the base.” Ira stated the obvious.
“That’s right,” Marty said, chiding himself with a shake of his head. “We passed a door where we turned onto this corridor. That’s where they had their quarters. My father lived in room twelve.”
Mentally, Mercer adjusted his map of the base. Where the center of the letter H met the right leg, there would be an additional line extending outward.
Backtracking, Marty rushed to the first juncture. “Check it out.” He pointed to the sign on a door they had passed but ignored. “Officers Only.” He led them down the corridor, reading numbers off the doors on each side as he went.
Mercer lagged behind. He understood that Marty wanted to see the room his father had occupied, but it went against his instinct to rush headlong. He continuously trained his light on the ceiling and walls to make sure they were solid and took a moment to peer into any of the open rooms they came across. The officers’ rooms were luxurious compared to the enlisted men’s dorms, but still they were small. Each had a single bed, a desk, and a freestanding closet. As Marty paused in front of room twelve to address the camera for posterity, Mercer craned his head into room ten.
And froze.
“This looks exactly the way my father described,” he heard Marty tell Ira Lasko.
Pushing open the door with his shoulder and centering his light on the bed, Mercer turned to the two men. “Does that include this corpse?”
The body of a dark-haired man lay on top of the bed, clothed in a leather jacket. He had been freeze-dried like a mummy.
“My God!”
“Who is it?”
Mercer studied the body for a moment longer, noting the embroidered wings on the fur-trimmed jacket. “Gentlemen, meet Major Jack Delaney, the pilot of a C-97 that crashed three months before Camp Decade was closed.”
HAMBURG, GERMANY
Sweat pouring down his face, Klaus Raeder leapt back as a callused fist brushed past his jaw, missing him by a fraction of an inch. He pivoted, raised one leg, and fired a counterkick that his opponent swept aside gracefully. Continuing with his spin, Raeder let the first leg drop, cocked the other, and landed a bare foot into the midsection of his adversary.
The man doubled over, his breathing so ragged that for a moment Raeder feared he’d caused injury. He dropped his guard, wiping his hands on the baggy pants of his martial arts gi. His opponent saw the momentary lapse and instantly exploded from his position, swinging his arms and feet in a flurry of blows. Raeder was forced to retreat in the face of such an onslaught, blocking shots by pure instinct, for they were coming too fast to actually see. Instinct told him he was nearing the mirrored wall of the dojo. When the next punch came at his face, he captured the fist in his crossed wrists, torqued his body so his adversary was pushed off balance, and rammed his knee upward, lifting his sparring partner from his feet. He had been too close to defeat to care about injuries now.
He executed a perfect throw, tossing the other man’s two-hundred-pound frame with ease. Rolling with the throw, he came up on his knees, grabbed a handful of the supine opponent’s gi, and prepared to punch his teeth through the back of his head.
“Give,” Gunther Rath croaked.
Raeder’s eyes were glazed with bloodlust, his mind empty of everything but absolute victory. He was so close to administering the killer blow that he had to jerk himself away, pounding a palm against the padded carpet to vent a portion of his raw aggression.
Just as quickly as the berserker fury washed over him, it faded. He stood and extended a hand to his special-projects director, a triumphant smile splitting his handsome face. “For a second there, I thought you had me.”
“For a second, I did,” Rath replied. An injury to his throat during his years as a professional judo instructor had left his voice box severely damaged. Each word rasped as if spoken over sandpaper.
His tortured voice, oft-broken nose, and large build combined to make Rath appear menacing, a man others intentionally avoided. People also thought him slow-witted because of his bulk but he had a street cunning that Klaus Raeder had identified early in their relationship.
He had found Rath in East Germany during a particularly difficult corporate takeover. In 1991, Raeder was trying to buy a factory that made industrial hot-water boilers but a nascent union movement would not agree to terms, putting the dea
l in jeopardy. The delay caused Raeder’s purchase price to spiral to the point where the purchase no longer made economic sense. Yet he would not give up. Never one to let legality interfere with his plans, Raeder went in search of a specific type of problem solver.
A few discreet inquiries led him to Gunther Rath, a former Olympic medal winner in judo working as an enforcer for an underworld leader. When they met the first time, Raeder saw a potential in Rath that went far beyond the petty intimidation he’d been using. The lawless scramble following the demise of communism opened unprecedented opportunities if one had the vision and the will. Raeder had little difficulty imagining the profits to be wrung from East Germany, and he saw that Gunther Rath, with his shadowy contacts, could help provide the means.
Raeder made him an offer. Break the union and he could have a permanent position in Raeder’s company. Rath had never considered his particular skills could be used in the legitimate world, so he jumped at the chance to escape his current situation. It was an opportunity for a new beginning and an escape from the mistakes that had tumbled him from the Olympic podium to the streets. The labor problem came to a quick end, following an arson attack against the labor leader’s house that nearly wiped out his family.
During his years in the East, Klaus Raeder relied on Rath to be his blunt instrument of corporate coercion. However, by the time Klaus Raeder came to the attention of Kohl AG, the two had tempered their tactics since their reputation alone was enough to intimidate. While Reinhardt Wurmbach, Kohl’s legal counsel, questioned Rath’s suitability in such a prestigious firm, Raeder would not have accepted the presidency if Rath weren’t brought in as his special-projects director.
After a few moments of rest, the two squared off again. Gunther Rath had begun teaching Raeder martial arts early in their partnership. Raeder excelled, very quickly becoming his teacher’s equal. In the past few years he’d actually become better than Rath, something he delighted in proving. The two had sparred thousands of times, and yet their workouts had never become stale because each had such drive. It was a contest of ego and desire as much as skill.
Before the first punch was thrown, a buzzing phone interrupted them.
Raeder bowed to Rath and turned away.
The dojo was in the basement of Raeder’s Blankesene district villa, a hundred-year-old home the size of a castle in Hamburg’s best neighborhood. Raeder had purchased the house soon after joining Kohl, renovating the musty wine cellar into a modern gymnasium. The mirrored room was ringed with exercise equipment and benches of free weights.
The phone was on a table near the stairs leading to the ground floor.
“Raeder.”
“Herr Raeder, it’s Ernst Neuhaus.” The head of Geo-Research’s support office in Reykjavik sounded agitated.
“Yes, what is it?” Raeder looked at a wall clock, noting it wasn’t yet six in the morning. It would be five in Iceland and another hour earlier in Greenland.
“Sir, we’ve had communications problems from Greenland. Otherwise you would have been informed last night.”
“What happened?” Raeder’s stomach tightened. Neuhaus was being obsequious, never a good sign.
“The Americans have already opened Camp Decade and they discovered a body that’s been frozen there for many years.”
“Whose?” he snapped, dreading what he was about to hear. The news, if it was what he feared, would instantly nullify his carefully laid plans.
“It appears to be the body of an American Air Force pilot.”
“Thank Christ.” Raeder sagged. Had the corpse been of one of the others, Kohl AG would have been destroyed in hours. Gunther Rath approached his superior when he saw the fleeting look of panic on his face. Raeder waved a hand to indicate that everything was all right. “He was a survivor of the cargo plane crash in 1953?”
“That’s what they think, yes,” Neuhaus answered quickly. “The Americans speculate that he survived out on the ice by living in the plane and eating provisions meant for Thule Air Force Base. Some discussed the possibility that he also ate his crewmates as well.”
“Has anyone done a detailed analysis of the body?” Raeder didn’t honestly believe that anyone could have survived the accident in the Pandora cavern and ten years of isolation, but he had to make certain.
“Not yet,” Neuhaus said. “The corpse is still in Camp Decade. The Americans want to contact their Air Force about how to proceed.”
“No!” Raeder shouted. “That can’t be allowed to happen. There are already too many people at the site. The U.S. Air Force will want to send in a full forensic team as well as soldiers to escort the body home.” He paused, thinking furiously. “The Surveyor’s Society group must be prevented from contacting the outside. Use the communications problems as an excuse.”
“That won’t be much of a stretch,” Neuhaus said. “The solar-max phenomenon has made the satellite phones at the base worthless, and the radio works only sporadically.”
“Good. Make sure they remain isolated. No one is to use the radio other than our people.” That was one problem solved, at least temporarily. “I still want that body examined.”
“That may pose a risk. None of our people have a legitimate excuse to inspect it.”
“Tell them to do it in secret.” Irritation strained Raeder’s voice. Neuhaus should have seen such a simple solution. “I don’t want an autopsy performed, just a quick examination to confirm that the man is really who the Americans believe.” Because of the compartmentalization of this project, men at Neuhaus’s level did not know who else could have infiltrated the long-abandoned base. Raeder couldn’t afford to say whose body he initially feared had been discovered without compromising security. “Just pass on my orders.”
“Yes, sir.” Neuhaus paused. “Ah, Herr Raeder, there is one more thing.”
“What?”
“We learned the identity of the woman Mercer spoke to here in Reykjavik.” Raeder heard his employee snap open a piece of paper. “Elisebet Rosmunder.”
“Who is she?”
“Her son was involved with the failed search for the C-97 back in the ’50s. Rosmunder herself is more than eighty years old.”
“Are you having her watched?”
“Yes, sir. As far as we can tell, her routine hasn’t changed since that meeting. She’s had no visitors nor has she gone to meet anyone. Do you want us to tap her phone?”
Raeder considered for a moment. He doubted her interest in Greenland went beyond the plane crash. But what of Mercer’s interest in her? With no link between the crashed cargo plane and Pandora, the mining engineer was looking up a blind alley. “No, you don’t need to tap her phone. Maintain a loose surveillance for a few days, and if she does nothing suspicious let it drop. I believe she’s a dead end.
“That reminds me of something, Ernst. The last member of the expedition is due to arrive at the base tonight, right?”
“Anika Klein arrives tomorrow morning,” Neuhaus corrected.
“Okay. I’m sending Gunther Rath to Greenland the day after that. I don’t know how big our search window will be, so I want to get working as quickly as possible. Thank Werner for me on the excellent job he’s done setting up the base. It went better than any of us predicted. Tell him that, as soon as Rath arrives, he will be taking over command of the operation. Once Rath’s there, we’ll find some pretense to evacuate all non-Geo-Research people from the base.”
“Yes, Herr Raeder.”
“Neuhaus learned who Mercer met with?” Gunther Rath asked as soon as Raeder hung up the phone.
“A nobody named Elisebet Rosmunder. Her son was part of the search for the missing C-97.”
“Considering what’s at stake, is it wise to leave her alive?”
Raeder couldn’t believe he’d heard correctly. “Jesus, Gunther! Why the hell would you ask that? This whole operation was designed so no one gets hurt, and you casually suggest we kill an innocent woman. What are you thinking?”
Rath gave
no physical reaction to the quick rebuke. “Klaus, this operation goes beyond what we’ve ever done before. We are more in my old world than your new one. We need to go to extraordinary lengths to protect ourselves. You may have convinced Kohl’s board that removing evidence from the Pandora cavern is just a business decision, but we know that’s bullshit. Saving the company a ton of money doesn’t negate the immorality of your plan.”
“Immorality is a far cry from cold-blooded murder,” Raeder countered. “No matter how much money we save Kohl, I would never condone such an act.”
“She’s a loose thread. In this situation she could prove to be dangerous to us.”
“Haven’t I taught you anything, Gunther? Early on, your tactics were what we required to get what we want. But those days are long past. Despite what you think, our plan to clear out the Pandora cavern is a business decision, pure and simple. We are not going to resort to violence. There’s no need for it.”
Raeder saw that Rath still looked unconvinced yet said nothing. He had conditioned Rath for unquestioning loyalty and wondered why his orders were now being questioned. His answer came quickly.
“I can’t go to Greenland until early next week,” Rath said. “The Party’s holding an executive committee meeting in Essen Sunday night. I have to attend.”
The corners of Raeder’s mouth turned downward in annoyance. Gunther Rath had made tremendous progress shedding his criminal image. He favored Savile Row suits, dined at fine restaurants, and had even given up his proclivity for prostitutes to settle down with one woman. Yet all of Raeder’s efforts to make him give up his most dangerous trait—interest in the Nazi Party—had failed. For as long as they’d known each other, Rath had been an active member of the fascist organization and worked tirelessly for the cause. Just recently he’d been promoted to an executive committee near the very top of the neo-Nazi movement.
Rath’s belief in fascism had its roots in his youth. His father had been a sergeant in the Eisatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg, the professional looter squads charged with plundering Europe’s Jews during the war. It was estimated that this little-known organization stole $3.5 billion from Holland alone and their total for all of Europe approached $13 billion in inflation-adjusted dollars. Fully one fifth of the world’s recognized Western art had passed through Nazi hands during their systematic pillage.
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