Scenes From the Secret History (The Secret History of the World)

by F. Paul Wilson

  "Is there some way I might be of service to you?” Kaempffer finally asked.

  "Not to me, per se, but to the High Command. There is a little problem in Romania at the moment. An inconvenience, really."

  “Oh?”

  "Yes. A small regular army detachment stationed in the Alps north of Ploiesti has been suffering some losses – apparently due to local partisan activity – and the officer wishes to abandon his position."

  "That's an army matter." Major Kaempffer didn't like this one bit. "It has nothing to do with the SS."

  "But it does." Hossbach reached behind him and plucked a piece of paper off his desktop. "The High Command passed this on to Obergruppenfführer Heydrich's office. I think it is rather fitting that I pass it on to you."

  "Why fitting?"

  "The officer in question is Captain Klaus Woermann, the one you brought to my attention a year or so ago because of his refusal to join the Party."

  Kaempffer allowed himself an instant of guarded relief. "And since I'll be in Romania, this is to be dumped in my lap.”

  "Precisely. Your year's tutelage at Auschwitz should have taught you not only how to run an efficient camp, but how to deal with partisan locals as well. I'm sure you'll solve the matter quickly.”

  “May I see the paper?"

  "Certainly."

  Kaempffer took the proffered slip and read the two lines. Then he read them again.

  "Was this decoded properly?"

  "Yes. I thought the wording rather odd myself, so I had it double-checked. It's accurate."

  Kaempffer read the message again:

  Request immediate relocation.

  Something is murdering my men.

  A disturbing message. He had known Woermann in the Great War and would always remember him as one of the stubbornest men alive. And now, in a new war, as an officer in the Reichswehr, Woermann had repeatedly refused to join the Party despite relentless pressure. Not a man to abandon a position, strategic or otherwise, once he had assumed it. Something must be very wrong for him to request relocation.

  But what bothered Kaempffer even more was the choice of words. Woermann was intelligent and precise. He knew his message would pass through a number of hands along the transcription and decoding route and must have been trying to get something across to the High Command without going into detail.

  But what? The word "murder" implied a purposeful human agent. Why then had he preceded it with "something"? A thing – an animal, a disease, a natural disaster – could kill, but it could not murder.

  "I'm sure I don't have to tell you," Hossbach was saying, "that since Romania is an ally state rather than an occupied territory, a certain amount of finesse will be required.”

  "I'm quite well aware of that."

  A certain amount of finesse would be required in handling Woermann, too. Kaempffer had an old score to settle with him.

  Hossbach tried to smile, but the attempt looked more like a leer. "All of us at RSHA, all the way up to General Heydrich, will be most interested to see how you fare in this…before you move on to the major task at Ploiesti.”

  The emphasis on the word "before," and the slight pause preceding it, were not lost on Kaempffer. Hossbach was going to turn this little side trip to the Alps into a trial by fire. Kaempffer was due in Ploiesti in one week; if he could not handle Woermann's problem with sufficient dispatch, then it might be said that perhaps he was not the man to set up the resettlement camp at Ploiesti. There would be no shortage of candidates to take his place.

  Spurred by a sudden sense of urgency, he rose and put on his coat and cap. "I foresee no problems. I'll leave at once with two squads of einsatzkommandos. If air transport can be arranged and proper rail connections made, we can be there by this evening."

  "Excellent!" Hossbach said, returning Kaempffer's salute. "Two squads should be sufficient to take care of a few guerrillas." He turned and stepped to the door.

  "More than sufficient, I'm sure."

  SS-Sturmbannfohrer Kaempffer did not hear his superior's parting remark. Other words filled his mind: "Something is murdering my men…"

  DINU PASS, ROMANIA

  28 April 1941

  1322 hours

  Captain Klaus Woermann stepped to the south window of his room in the keep's tower and spat a stream of white into the open air.

  Goat's milk – gah! For cheese, maybe, but not for drinking.

  As he watched the liquid dissipate into a cloud of pale droplets plummeting the hundred feet or so to the rocks below, Woermann wished for a brimming stein of good German beer. The only thing he wanted more than the beer was to be gone from this antechamber to Hell.

  But that was not to be. Not yet, anyway. He straightened his shoulders in a typically Prussian gesture. He was taller than average and had a large frame that had once supported more muscle but was now tending toward flab. His dark brown hair was cropped close; he had wide-set eyes, equally brown; a slightly crooked nose, broken in his youth; and a full mouth capable of a toothy grin when appropriate. His gray tunic was open to the waist, allowing his small paunch to protrude. He patted it. Too much sausage. When frustrated or dissatisfied, he tended to nibble between meals, usually at a sausage. The more frustrated and dissatisfied, the more he nibbled. He was getting fat.

  Woermann's gaze came to rest on the tiny Romanian village across the gorge, basking in the afternoon sunlight, peaceful, a world away. Pulling himself from the window, he turned and walked across the room, a room lined with stone blocks, many of them inlaid with peculiar brass-and-nickel crosses. Forty-nine crosses in this room to be exact. He knew. He had counted them numerous times in the last three or four days. He walked past an easel holding a nearly finished painting, past a cluttered makeshift desk to the opposite window, the one that looked down on the keep's small courtyard.

  Below, the off-duty men of his command stood in small groups, some talking in low tones, most sullen and silent, all avoiding the lengthening shadows. Another night was coming. Another of their number would die.

  One man sat alone in a corner, whittling feverishly. Woermann squinted down at the piece of wood taking shape in the carver's hands – a crude cross. As if there weren't enough crosses around!

  The men were afraid. And so was he. Quite a turnaround in less than a week. He remembered marching them through the gates of the keep as proud soldiers of the Wehrmacht, an army that had conquered Poland, Denmark, Norway, Holland, and Belgium; and then, after sweeping the remnants of the British Army into the sea at Dunkirk, had gone on to finish off France in thirty-nine days. And just this month Yugoslavia had been overrun in twelve days, Greece in a mere twenty-one as of yesterday. Nothing could stand against them. Born victors.

  But that had been last week. Amazing what six horrible deaths could do to the conquerors of the world. It worried him. During the past week the world had constricted until nothing existed for him and his men beyond this undersized castle, this tomb of stone. They had run up against something that defied all their efforts to stop it, that killed and faded away, only to return to kill again. The heart was going out of them.

  They…Woermann realized that he had not included himself among them for some time. The fight had gone out of his own heart back in Poland, near the town of Posnan… after the SS had moved in and he had seen firsthand the fate of those “undesirables” left in the wake of the victorious Wehrmacht. He had protested. As a result, he had seen no further combat. Just as well. He had lost all pride that day in thinking of himself as one of the conquerors of the world.

  He left the window and returned to the desk. Oblivious to the framed photographs of his wife and his two sons, he stared down at the decoded message there.

  SS-Sturmbannfahrer Kaempffer arriving today with

  detachment einsatzkommandos. Maintain present position.

  Why an SS major’? This was a regular army position. The SS had nothing to do with him, with the keep, or with Romania as far as he knew. But then there were so ma
ny things he failed to understand about this war. And Kaempffer, of all people! A rotten soldier, but no doubt an exemplary SS man. Why here? And why with einsatzkommandos? They were extermination squads. Death’s Head Troopers. Concentration camp muscle. Specialists in killing unarmed civilians. It was their work he had witnessed outside Posnan. Why were they coming here’?

  Unarmed civilians…the words lingered…and as they did, a smile crept slowly into the corners of his mouth, leaving his eyes untouched.

  Let the SS come. Woermann was now convinced there was an unarmed civilian of sorts at the root of all the deaths in the keep. But not the helpless cringing sort the SS was used to. Let them come. Let them taste the fear they so dearly loved to spread. Let them learn to believe in the unbelievable.

  Woermann believed. A week ago he would have laughed at the thought. But now, the nearer the sun to the horizon, the more firmly he believed… and feared.

  All within a week. There had been unanswered questions when they had first arrived at the keep, but no fear. A week. Was that all? It seemed ages ago that he had first laid eyes on the keep…

  If you wish to read on… The Keep

  1968

  REBORN

  Reborn is the direct sequel to The Keep. This is where the sleepy little Village of Monroe on Long Island’s north shore lands on the map of the Secret History. We’ll be returning to Monroe again and agaian as time goes on.

  I had no idea I'd ever write another word related to The Keep. Same with The Touch and The Tomb. I considered them unrelated stand-alone novels. But my subconscious had other ideas.

  In 1987, after finishing Black Wind, I started on Reborn. I'd outlined it with a different title years before but it didn't gel. I wanted it to look like a Rosemary's Baby or an Omen but actually be something different (just as The Keep looks like a vampire novel for a while, but it's not). But I wanted to use an evil entity other than the Antichrist. Then I realized I already had that entity in Rasalom. I needed a suburban setting convenient to Manhattan, and realized I already had one in Monroe where The Touch took place. Could I tie those novels into Rasalom's reincarnation and bring the books full circle?

  If I brought Rasalom back, I was obligated to get rid of him, right? Things grew – and I do mean grew – from there. Somehow the mythology I’d invented for The Tomb became involved, and that brought Jack into the picture. The result was an outline for a 1,000-plus-page novel. Nobody was going to publish that, so I broke it down into a trilogy – Reborn Reprisal, and Nightworld – and sold it that way. But in my head it remains a single novel – a roman fleuve, if you will.

  Here’s how it starts…

  REBORN

  (sample)

  PROLOGUE

  Sunday

  February 11, 1968

  1

  He was calling himself Mr. Veilleur these days – Gaston Veilleur – and tonight he found it difficult to sleep. A remote uneasiness made him restless, a vague malaise nettled his mind, stirring up old memories and ancient nightmares. But he refused to give up the chase. He measured his breathing and soon found the elusive prey within his grasp. But just as he was slipping off, something dragged him back to full wakefulness.

  Light. From somewhere down the hall. He lifted his head to see. The glow came from the linen closet. Blue-white radiance was streaming out along the edges of the closed door.

  Moving carefully so as not to awaken his wife, Mr. Veilleur slipped out of bed and padded down the hall. His joints creaked in protest at the change in position. Old injuries, old wounds, reminders of each hung on, sounding little echoes from the past. He knew he was developing arthritis. No surprise there. His body looked sixty years old and had decided to begin acting accordingly.

  He hesitated a moment with his hand on the knob of the closet door, then yanked it open. The very air within seemed to glow; it flowed and swirled and eddied, like burning liquid. But cold. He felt a chill as it splashed over him.

  The source – what was causing this? The light seemed most intense in the rear corner of the bottom shelf, under the blankets. He reached down and pulled them away.

  Mr. Veilleur bit back a cry of pain and threw an arm across his eyes as the naked brilliance lanced into his brain.

  Then the glow began to fade.

  When his eyes could see again, when he dared to look again, he found the source of the glow. Tucked back among the towels and sheets and blankets was what appeared to be a huge iron cross. He smiled. She'd saved it. After all these years, she still hung on to it.

  The cross still pulsed with a cold blue radiance as he lifted it. He gripped the lower section of the upright with two hands and hefted it with an easy familiarity. Not a cross – a sword hilt. Once it had been gold and silver. After serving its purpose, it had changed. Now it was iron. Glowing iron.

  Why? What did this mean?

  Suddenly the glow faded away, leaving him staring at the dull gray surface of the metal. And then the metal itself began to change. He felt its surface grow coarse, saw tiny cracks appear, and then it began to crumble. Within seconds it was reduced to a coarse powder that sifted and ran through his fingers like grains of sand.

  Something has happened. Something has gone wrong! But what?

  Slightly unnerved, Mr. Veilleur stood empty handed in the dark and realized how quiet the world had become. All except for the sound of a jet passing high overhead.

  2

  Roderick Hanley twisted in his seat as he tried to stretch his cramped muscles and aching back. It had been a long flight from L.A., and even the extra width in first class cramped his big frame.

  "We'll be landing shortly, Dr. Hanley," the stewardess said, leaning close to him. "Can I get you anything before we close the bar?"

  Hanley winked at her. "You could, but it's not stocked in the bar."

  Her laugh seemed genuine. "Seriously, though…"

  "How about another gimlet?"

  "Let's see." She touched a fingertip to her chin. "'Four- to-one vodka-to-lime with a dash of Cointreau,' right?"

  "Perfect."

  She touched his shoulder. "Be right back."

  Pushing seventy and I can still charm them.

  He smoothed back his silvery hair and squared his shoulders inside the custom made British tweed shooting jacket. He often wondered if it was the aura of money he exuded or the burly, weathered good looks that belied his years. He was proud of both, never underestimating the power of the former and long since giving up any false modesty about the latter.

  Being a Nobel Prize winner had never hurt either.

  He accepted the drink from her and took a healthy gulp, hoping the ethanol would calm his jangled nerves. The flight had seemed interminable. But at last they were approaching Idlewilde. No, it was called Kennedy Airport now, wasn't it. He hadn't been able to get used to the name change. But no matter what the place was called, they'd be safely down on terra firma shortly.

  And not a moment too soon.

  Commercial flights were a pain. Like being trapped at a cocktail party in you own house. If you didn't like the company you couldn't just up and leave. He much preferred the comfort and convenience of his private Learjet where he could call all the shots. But yesterday morning he’d learned that the plane would be grounded for three days, possibly five, waiting for a part. Another five days in California among those Los Angeleans who were all starting to look like hippies or Hindus or both was more than he could tolerate. So he’d bitten the bullet and bought a ticket on this Boeing behemoth.

  For once – just this once – he and Ed were traveling together.

  He glanced at his traveling companion, dozing peacefully beside him. Edward Derr, M.D., two years younger but looking older, was used to this sort of travel. Hanley nudged him once, then again. Derr's eyes fluttered open.

  "Wh-what's wrong?" he said, straightening up in his seat.

  "Landing soon. Want something before we touch down?"

  Derr rubbed a hand over his craggy face. "No." He
closed his eyes again. "Just wake me when it's over."

  "How the hell can you sleep in these seats?"

  "Practice."

  Thirty years of regular attendance together at biological and genetic research conferences all over the world, and never once had they traveled on the same plane. Until today.

  It would not do to have the pair of them die together.

  Certain records and journals in the Monroe house were not yet ready for the light of day. He couldn't imagine any time in the near future when the world would be ready for them. Sometimes he wondered why he didn't simply burn them and have done with the whole affair. Sentimental reasons, he guessed. Or ego. Or both. Whatever the reason, he couldn't seem to bring himself to part with them.

  A shame, really. He and Derr had made biological history and they couldn't tell anybody. That had been part of the pact they’d made that day in the first week of 1942. That and the promise that when one of them died, the other would immediately destroy the sensitive records.

  After a more than a quarter century of living with that pact, he should have been accustomed to it. But no. He’d been in a state of constant anxiety since takeoff. But at last, the trip was over. All they had to do was land. They'd made it.

  Suddenly came a violent jolt, a scream of agonized metal, and the 707 tilted to a crazy angle. Someone behind them in the tourist section screamed something about a wing tearing off, and then the plane plummeted, spinning wildly.

  The thought of his own death was no more than a fleeting presence. The knowledge that there would be no one left to destroy the records crowded out everything else.