A Room Full of Night

by TR Kenneth

  He looked at the sad poster of the palm tree and suddenly felt like whistling. Maybe he was going to retire there, after all.

  Stag put his phone in his parka pocket and looked at Jake.

  “He’s coming?”

  Stag nodded.

  “Should we trust him?”

  “I don’t know.” He pulled out the card that Angelika Aradi had given him. For a moment he stared at it, then out at the snow-covered mountains and the beautiful thawed emerald Königssee. He had to go to the authorities, but Tarnhelm made it very difficult to know which ones to trust. Aradi worked for Tarnhelm, that much was certain, but her remarks on the plane from Bali were hard to shake off: I don’t want my daughter in Tarnhelm’s world.

  Maybe she meant it. Maybe not. But how could he take the chance?

  He shoved the card back in his pocket. Jake motioned to head back. It was going to be another eventful day tomorrow, no doubt. Stag followed him, his mind on the meeting in the morning.

  Kehlsteinhaus. Few relics remained of Hitler’s Berchtesgaden retreat. Martin Borman had had Kehlsteinhaus—or as it was more famously known in English, the Eagle’s Nest—built for Hitler’s fiftieth birthday. Mussolini even supplied the red marble fireplace mantel for it. It was perched on a high ridge of a mountain so precarious twelve men died trying to build it under Albert Speer’s direction.

  Hitler only visited it fourteen times.

  It was a fitting place for the end—or the beginning—of World War III.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  ANGELIKA WATCHED THE men get into the Porsche and drive out of the park. She followed behind in a staid BMW, not bothering to pass the tourist buses in order to keep up; she would find them anyway. She had them on her tracking, and they were headed to the Hotel Edelweiss. She would meet them there.

  The mountains were brute indigo hulks as she slalomed the curves in the road. Her phone released an encrypted ping. She looked down at the message.

  The time was running out. The buyers were getting anxious. Worse, Portier was losing patience.

  She pulled into the valet area. It was time she and Stag Maguire have one final talk.

  Stag couldn’t say he was surprised to see her. Given the terrible timing of what they’d just found on that mountain, he was stunned to see her, horrified, afraid, yes. Surprised, not really. She had tricks that he just couldn’t know about.

  She sat waiting for him in the bar, her red coat tossed on a chair, her blond hair like a beacon. He took note that she was drinking white wine. He himself was going to order a scotch; he sure as fuck needed one.

  “Ah, Ms. Aradi,” he said, slipping into the banquette next to her.

  He ordered his scotch neat, then said, “There is no GPS on me.”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you keep finding me?”

  “The human heart is a source of electromagnetism with its own unique pattern. It can be detected if you have the right scientific instruments. Expensive technology—not many have access to it—but once we’ve captured your particular signal, we can find you, if you’re not too far away.”

  “That explains the gaps.”

  “It’s cutting edge and extremely costly to implement, and like everything else, not perfect. We can’t always use it. Best to have multiple technologies.” She sipped her wine. “This is your second trip to the Königssee. Something have your attention?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Tomorrow this entire area will be crawling with Tarnhelm people. Have you thought of giving my friend a call?”

  He wondered if she’d really been unable to track him to the mountain where the bomb lay. If he was alive, it seemed the only answer.

  His scotch arrived, and he wanted to gulp it the hell down.

  “There are a lot of people who want to get their hands on this thing,” he said, putting down his empty glass.

  “Stag—”

  He interrupted. “You haven’t told Tarnhelm you’re following me, have you?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You’re going rogue.”

  “I’ve always been rogue. My father was a Hungarian Catholic who married a Bosnian Muslim. Do you think this helped him in the genocide in Srebrenica? He was rounded up as Muslim and murdered.” She paused. “This taught me that stereotypes are useful when you are trying to sell something. It’s a scary thought, isn’t it? The same techniques they use to sell you Oreos can sell you on mass murder.”

  “Tarnhelm’s business is deciding who to murder, and who to sell the murder to.” He motioned to the bartender for another. “Glad we got that straight. I mean, why go rogue if you’ve embraced the business model?”

  “I’ve told you. This is about more than myself and Tarnhelm.”

  “Yes,” he snarled. “This is about an entire section of the world going up in a mushroom cloud. Not to mention the politics and retaliation that will follow.”

  “Which is why I’m trying to save my daughter.” She seemed to tamp down her emotions by fingering the hole in her sweater. She was wearing a beautiful black and white ski sweater with woven leather buttons that looked like it was out of the fifties. Of course, it was moth-eaten.

  He watched her worry the little moth-hole. Her clothes were intentional. They needed kintsukoroi: golden repair. The Japanese would take a broken piece of pottery and mix the glue with gold dust. The vase or bowl would be an altogether new and beautiful object when it was fixed. But there was no golden repair on her. She was raw and abused in a strangely elegant way. It was such an honest reflection, it was hard to look away.

  “I can take you to meet with someone in Berlin.” She picked up her wine glass and took a sip. “Perhaps a discussion in the right circles will change your mind.”

  “Tarnhelm has the wherewithal to manufacture a ‘meeting’ in NATO or wherever they wish.”

  “Yes. Yes, they do. Which is why you have to find someone to trust who can get the information into the right hands.”

  “Give me one reason to trust you.”

  She said nothing. She simply stared at the hand that was slung around her wine glass. Slowly she moved her hand to his and touched him.

  The quiet gesture strangely aroused him. Her vulnerability moved him, and the fear he felt around her was a raw aphrodisiac.

  If Tarnhelm got their hands on Heydrich’s weapon, the world was going to become a battlefield. It was now a time of war even though most didn’t know it yet, and there was one universal comfort people took in a time of war.

  She wasn’t going to kill him yet. He still had information she wanted. All she was going to do was try to convince him.

  Right then and there, on the cusp of Armageddon, he decided to let her try.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  STAG LAY IN bed in the pre-dawn light, listening to the breathing next to him. He’d had his final nightmare of Holly. He’d hit the wall. There was no more in him to dream after that last one.

  The image of Holly burned in his psyche. She was lying in a deep pool of spreading red. The green, twin-tailed Starbucks siren smiled above her, luring her to her death, and luring all the rest of them into madness.

  Last night he’d relived every final moment. There were no poignant last words, no declarations of undying love. Instead, all she’d whimpered was, “Please, God, I need some water. I’ve got to have some water.” She repeated these words, blind to him, blind to her wounds, blind even to her dying, until she slipped away and her hand ceased its grip on his.

  He didn’t know it at the time, but when you bleed to death, your body and mind become obsessed with a search for liquids. It was not uncommon to find crime scenes slathered in blood with the inexplicable blood-smeared plastic gallon of milk sitting out on the counter. In death throes, the victim had gone to the refrigerator before calling 911.

  There were many things he learned that day. Now he wondered if he was finally going to put his grief and horror over Holly aside, only to immerse himself with a new one
.

  He rose quietly, unsure whether she was awake or not. Last night opened questions he couldn’t answer. But now he had to head to Kehlsteinhaus. All other questions would have to wait.

  He and Jake met in the lobby. They reached Kehlsteinhaus from the Dokumentation Obersalzberg. The center was described as a place of guided learning and remembrance, to reflect on the National Socialist past. Tourists could drench themselves in photos of Hitler’s long demolished complex of the Berghof, then ride up to the Eagle’s Nest, and have a bratwurst and a tour. It was to be noted that the only tours available were those booked through the Documentation Center. No private tours were allowed. The Bavarian government maintained scrupulous protection against those who would be attracted to the place, such as Nazi-sympathizers and Neo-Nazis.

  Waiting for the bus that would take them up the mountain, Stag read about the history of the area. He thought it served as an ominous foreboding:

  According to legend, Emperor Frederick Barbarossa is asleep inside Mt. Untersberg until his resurrection. His beard is said to be growing longer and longer around a round table and to have grown round two times. Myth says that when the beard has grown three times around the table the end of the world has come.

  When he and Jake stepped up to the bus to drive the hairpin turn of the road to the Eagle’s Nest, both men were silent and grim, a foil to the strange atmosphere of happy, tacky tourists on holiday.

  They arrived and stood in line for their turn at the elevator, the first real vestige of luxe National Socialism left in the complex. The elevator was accessed through a tunnel. The elevator was fitted with polished brass walls, Venetian mirrors, and green leather. A jarring contrast to the stone mountains all around.

  As the elevator rose, Jake looked at him in the mirror-like wall. Stag met his gaze. Every nerve was on edge. In truth, Stag couldn’t wait to hand over the information to Interpol. He wanted it off his conscience.

  The doors opened to a sparsely-filled restaurant. The building had spectacular views of the surrounding peaks and valleys. Walking through it, Stag could even see the Königssee and the mountain where the Angel of Death lay.

  They found Troost through a set of double doors. Walking down a few steps, Stag took note of the plaque. The Eva Braun Room.

  “Mr. Maguire.” Troost stood. He was alone in the room. “This is a strange meeting place. I certainly hope you have some information for me!”

  He made the introduction to Jake.

  “What have you got for me, eh? Have you seen Ms. Aradi?”

  Along with Jake, Stag began the long, strange story of how they’d come to the Königssee in search of a bomb and how they were pretty sure they’d now found one. When he was through, he took Troost out the door to the old Sun Terrace. It was now enclosed with windows, so Stag wiped at one to get the clearest view. In the distance, the Königssee could be seen snaking through the mountains. He pointed out the peak over the lake where they believed the bomb lay.

  “This is most incredible,” Troost exclaimed, his face taking on lines with every new revelation.

  “Yes. I think we need NATO or the German government to get here as soon as possible. We’re very worried this might fall into the wrong hands,” Jake said, the sound of a distant helicopter wafting in with the breeze.

  Troost nodded soberly, then he began punching into his phone.

  At that moment, Stag’s own phone began to vibrate. Since Jake was standing next to him, he couldn’t understand it. No one else knew the number.

  But then, he remembered what he’d done last night. It wasn’t a big leap to imagine a woman going through a man’s things to take a look at his cell phone.

  “Fuck,” he said under his breath. It wasn’t time to give in to loneliness and sex. It was time to save the fucking world. But human frailty won out again.

  He dug his phone out. The helicopter grew louder.

  Google HEYDRICH GET OUT!!!

  He looked down at the text highlighted on his screen and his insides lurched. He eyed Troost who was still busy tapping into his phone. Nervously, Stag gave Jake a warning glance. While Troost was distracted, Stag went to Safari and punched in HEYDRICH.

  He didn’t even get to the Wikipedia page. He didn’t have to. On the first page of the listings, in small print, he picked out the words.

  President of the ICPC (now known as Interpol)

  Stag slowly lowered his phone to show Jake.

  Jake tapped on the first entry, a Modern Motion article by Gilead Amit:

  From 1938 to 1945, Interpol, or the International Criminal Police Commission, as it was then known, became little more than an extension of the Nazi state; the organization whose sole mission is to make the world safer, ruled from Berlin and was presided over by the very men responsible for planning and implementing the Holocaust.

  Although speculation is rife concerning the extent to which different countries collaborated with Interpol during the war, it is hard to know anything for certain … the little anecdotal evidence that survives, however, is chilling enough … the United States continued to exchange information with Interpol until just three days before Pearl Harbor, and as late as 1943, the ostensibly neutral Swiss government was still paying its annual subscription ….

  Following the end of the war—and Interpol President Kaltenbrunner’s execution at Nuremberg on the charge of Crimes against Humanity—Interpol turned its back on its past and began a slow and shaky journey towards rehabilitation.

  Stag could hear the helicopter getting closer and louder. What seemed a benign background noise now seemed to grow into the fury of a monster.

  “Give me the phone, Troost,” Stag said evenly, taking out the P-83 and pointing it toward Troost.

  “What is this all about?” Troost said, clearly unfazed by having the gun pointed at him.

  “Give me the phone.” Stag grabbed it and handed it to Jake. He also dug out the number on the card that the black man had given to Harry before killing him. “Is this text to Switzerland?” he asked, hoping Jake could match the country code.

  Jake’s hands began to shake. “It’s not just Switzerland, it’s the same number.”

  Stag itched to pull the trigger on Troost.

  “They know everything, Stag. Troost texted them. They know where it is.” Jake’s voice cracked.

  The helicopter landed in a patch of thinning snow just up the mountain. Interpol men dressed like commandos began to stream out.

  All they needed was a Tarnhelm badge on their shirtfronts, Stag thought.

  “It’s useless. Put down the gun,” Troost said, nodding to the commandos who jogged toward the Eagle’s Nest. Cries could be heard in the main dining room as people grew alarmed at the invasion.

  “They’re earlier than I’d hoped,” Troost said.

  You never hear the shot that kills you, Stag thought as Troost took the P-83 from his clutch.

  “You still don’t have the diary or my other evidence connecting Tarnhelm with that bomb and with the SD,” Stag said to Troost who motioned them to the corner of the Sun Terrace. “That bomb is useless without us. Anything happens to us, the diary and all my other evidence goes to the authorities.”

  “Mr. Portier will decide what chances to take,” Troost explained. “All I’m here to do is take my payment and retire to … where should I go … St. Kitts? The Seychelles? Whereever, just someplace warm and far away.”

  “That bomb’s going to kill a lot of people,” Jake implored.

  “Yes,” Troost agreed. “And were I a supervillain I might laugh right now, but I’m not. I feel bad about it. But it’s them or me. I’m sick to death of it being me.”

  “How will you enjoy that island in nuclear winter?” Stag spat.

  “There’s no nuclear winter. Tarnhelm has assured me they’ll be managing the entire episode. No one will know who acquired this bomb so there will be no retaliation. Which makes it much more valuable.”

  “You still need my evidence, and without my
cooperation it goes out to every newspaper in the world. They’ll know who ultimately got the bomb,” Stag said.

  “You have some value, Mr. Maguire, I don’t deny that. But alas, your companion does not. As always, I’ve been sent to clean up the situation. I’ve been instructed to take out the collateral.” He pointed the P-83 at Jake. The older man raised his shaking hands, unsure of what to do next. “Tell me,” he asked him, “do you know the painting by David? The Death of Marat?”

  Jake looked confused. He was about to answer, but there was no chance. Without warning, Troost put a bullet in his brain.

  Stag screamed in outrage. Jake fell to the floor, DOA, the back of his head blown out.

  “I’ll fucking kill you!” Stag shouted. He rushed Troost and the P-83, numb to the consequences, on fire from his anger.

  But this time, he did hear the shot, and it didn’t kill him. Wrangling with Troost, the gun went off, the bullet burning the side of his skull. In a blind rage, he kept fighting, irrationally numb, until another shot rang out.

  Troost fell backwards, a clean black hole through his forehead. Stunned, it took a moment for Stag to look behind him.

  Angelika Aradi stood in the doorway to the Eva Braun Room, the Walther in her hand, the Interpol Security Police commandos streaming from either side onto the Sun Terrace.

  As if on automatic, he raised a hand to the side of his head. Blood covered his hand; his head felt like a hot poker had been taken to it.

  Then he fell to the floor. Blacked out.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  STAG OPENED HIS eyes. He looked around at the sunny room, immaculately modern, white and clean. On the table next to him sat a clear vase of white roses, bursting with freshness.

  He didn’t know where the hell he was.

  Sitting up, he tried to put a hand to his aching head, and he saw the IV stuck in his arm. He then registered the hospital bed he was lying in. Outside his room, he heard the squeal of gurney wheels and a voice speaking German.

  “Ah, you’re awake.” The voice came from the doorway. There appeared a middle-aged man in a wrinkled trench. He introduced himself as James Duffy, NATO.