The Magic Circle

by Katherine Neville

  The rest of the story was easy enough to flesh out based on what I already knew from Laf, Dacian, and others: how Pandora later infiltrated the Behn household in Vienna with the aid of Hilter’s high school chum Gustl and befriended the imprisoned Hermione as her adopted sister; how Hieronymus failed to recognize the child he’d met so briefly, now a beautiful woman; how Pandora blackmailed Hieronymus and managed to bring young Lafcadio home for Hermione’s deathbed scene. But there was something else still unexplained. By Dacian’s account, Hieronymus forced Pandora to marry him, then threw her into the streets when she stole something he valued. But hadn’t Zoe then run off, too, with Pandora and the Gypsies? And if Laf’s story held water, both girls had been cozy, from square one, with Adolf Hitler.

  “Where does Hitler connect to all this?” I asked Zoe. “From everything you’ve told us, it’s plain these were Clio’s manuscripts Pandora wound up with. But even if your pal Lucky was after them, why would he go on outings with all of you—like that merry-go-round ride in the Prater Laf told me about—or take you to the Hofburg to look at the sword and spear? Why would he be so chummy with Pandora and Dacian, if he knew they were Rom?”

  “When Lucky ran into Pandora and Dacian the first time in Salzburg,” Zoe said, “he learned they were hunting for Hieronymus Behn—the very man who, twelve years earlier, had made an enormous splash with his revelations about the possible history and provenance of the platter of John the Baptist. Lucky himself, as a boy of only eleven, had gone with his grammar-school class to view that celebrated object. Like the other hallows, it was something he dreamed of possessing himself, ever afterward. By the time he lived in Vienna, he’d learned a good deal about the background of the Behn family. Though it’s never been proven, I’m quite certain that my father became one of Lucky’s earliest and strongest supporters. And as you say, Lucky surely knew a good deal about Pandora’s background. Dacian had to flee to the south of France, where, thanks to my own unusual brand of connections, I was able to assist him throughout the war. And while Lucky always kept a low profile about it, he would let no one touch Pandora, all through the war in Vienna—though of course he knew that she and Dacian were Rom—for he believed she alone held the key to a power that he himself sought.”

  “You say Rom—but what exactly does it mean?” Wolfgang interrupted in a strange tone. He’d been unusually quiet in this last part of her story.

  “Gypsies,” Zoe told him. To me, she explained, “The child that Clio adopted, Pandora, was actually the young niece of Aszi Atzingansi, a man of distinguished Romani blood who’d helped her recover many ancient texts, including the oracles of Cumae. Though there is no hard evidence, Pandora always believed that Aszi was also Clio’s great love. As I told Wolfgang last year when he first sought me out at a Heuriger in Vienna, it’s the oldest souls who preserve and keep alive the ancient wisdom. Pandora was such an old soul, as are most of the Romani people. Dacian very much wanted me to meet you, for he believes you are another—”

  “Just a moment,” Wolfgang cut in again, a bit more firmly. “You don’t mean to tell me that Pandora and Dacian Bassarides—Augustus Behn’s parents, Ariel’s grandparents—were actually Gypsies?”

  Zoe regarded him with a strange little smile, and lifted one brow.

  But wasn’t it Wolfgang who’d introduced me to Dacian in the first place? Then I recalled with a certain uneasiness that Dacian had not mentioned any Gypsy ancestry in Wolfgang’s presence, and indeed had cautioned me not to mention it either. In retrospect, considering how candid Dacian had been on other topics—the sword and spear, and even where we’d hidden Pandora’s manuscripts—the fact that he’d made a point of sending Wolfgang away during the part of our chat dealing with the family suddenly seemed chillingly significant. And more so when Zoe added enigmatically, “Your mother would be proud of such a question.”

  Wolfgang was clearly as exhausted as I, what with the weeks we’d spent running all over Europe and Soviet Russia, not to mention our combined data overload. He slipped off to sleep just after dinner on the first leg of our nearly twenty-four-hour return trip to Idaho.

  Though I had a multitude of topics to discuss, I also knew I needed time on my own to think things through and figure out where I stood. So I ordered strong black coffee with refills from the steward, and tried to focus my mind on reviewing everything I’d learned.

  One month ago, Zoe’s theory would have sounded completely insane: that Lucky, his niece, his dog, his friends, and their children had all been used—just as he himself had previously “used” millions of Gypsies, Jews, and others—in some kind of mass pagan sacrifice, a shamanistic “working,” to usher in the New Age. But Hitler had so many around him who believed, as he himself did, in utter nonsense. The magical Atlantis-like home of the Aryans at the North Pole; the final destruction of the world by Fire and Ice; the power of sacred hallows and “purified” blood to work terrestrial miracles. Not to forget, as Wolfgang had pointed out, his belief in a weapon of mass destruction that was known and repeatedly rediscovered since ancient times.

  For those who wanted to turn back the clock to an earlier golden age that they believed had once existed in pagan times—a danger Dacian Bassarides had warned against—human sacrifice could be very much a part of the system. So, revolting as such an idea might be, viewed within the context of what we knew of the Nazi belief system it didn’t actually seem all that far-fetched.

  But despite this possibly useful process of sorting and culling, I ran into a brick wall every time I returned to the frustrating topic of my family’s true relations with Adolf Hitler and his ilk. I had no idea where to begin. I thought of that jingle of William Blake’s:

  I give you the end of a golden string,

  Only wind it into a ball:

  It will lead you in at Heaven’s gate,

  Built in Jerusalem’s wall.

  If I could find the beginning of my own golden string—where and how the story had begun for me—that would certainly be a start.

  I did know, in fact, where I had first fallen into this labyrinth: it was the night I’d returned from Sam’s funeral in a blizzard, when I’d nearly drowned in snow. Then I’d picked up the ringing phone to learn from my father, Augustus, that my “inheritance” might include something of great value I hadn’t expected: Pandora’s manuscripts.

  But in hindsight, it suddenly occurred to me that maybe from that very first phone call, instead of pursuing the truth I constantly claimed I wanted, I might have been shutting my eyes whenever it was staring me right in the face. Hadn’t Dacian Bassarides said it was essential to ask the right questions? That the process could often be more important than the product? There was something connecting all these seemingly unrelated things, and though it might seem like trying to find a missing chunk in a scrambled pile of jigsaw pieces, I had to figure it out.

  And that was when I saw it.

  All this time I’d been sorting and culling and following bits of string when I should have been looking at what Sam called the “tantra” of it all—that is, the thing that held the whole tapestry together, as in Eastern cultures tantra tied Fate to life and death. Sam said it even existed in the animal kingdom: that a female spider wouldn’t eat the male if he left the web by the same path he’d entered by, showing that he recognized the pattern. Well, I’d finally recognized the pattern I’d been missing. I felt a cold little ball forming at the pit of my stomach.

  Though everyone in my family had perhaps told me conflicting stories, there was one person whose stories themselves were riddled with twists and turns and internal contradictions. And though the history or genealogy of each person might’ve turned out differently from what I was first led to believe—maybe even from what each believed about himself—there was one person I now realized I knew almost nothing consistent about. It was certainly true, though, that everyone had warned me against him from the very start—including, as I now realized in an awful flash, his own sister!

 
It was the man sitting beside me here in the plane, his dark, shaggy head leaning against my shoulder so I could barely make out his chiseled profile. It was my colleague, cousin, and erstwhile lover, Wolfgang K. Hauser of Krems, Österreich. And although only weeks ago I’d believed Wolfgang to be my own destiny here on planet earth, in the hard, cold light of reality I was forced to recognize that his every lie had only led to another lie, from the moment he’d mysteriously arrived in Idaho while I was away in San Francisco at Sam’s funeral.

  Speaking of that funeral, hadn’t Sam himself told me—in contradiction of Wolfgang’s claims about the employer of Olivier and Theron Vane—that it had all been arranged with blessings bestowed by the highest echelons of the U.S. government? And hadn’t Zoe also pointed out that Wolfgang had sought her out in Vienna to pump her for information, not the other way around?

  But the bitterest pill was the thought that Wolfgang had appropriated Pandora’s manuscripts from beneath my very nose, deploying the same suave deftness he’d used to appropriate my body and my trust.

  There were already enough hints of Aryan preoccupation in his Valhalla-like castle and his upbringing by a mother who herself had been raised by a Nazi. And what about Wolfgang’s direct question to Zoe: “You don’t mean to tell me that Ariel’s grandparents were actually Gypsies?” What else could that mean?

  Having already swallowed enough lies to choke a warthog, I wondered when I was going to stop lying to myself.

  Now that I feared, in the deep recesses of my mind, that Wolfgang Hauser himself was the missing link that tied together this mingled, mangled, muddled web of myth and intrigue, I only prayed I could retrace my own steps carefully enough to extricate both Sam and myself from it alive.

  URANUS

  I would like at this time to touch upon the greatest spiritual event which has taken place … the release of atomic energy.… I would call your attention to the words “liberation of energy.” It is liberation which is the keynote of the new era, just as it has always been with the spiritually oriented aspirant. This liberation has started by the release of an aspect of matter and the freeing of some of the soul forces within the atom.… For matter itself, a great and potent initiation paralleling those initiations which liberate or release the souls of men … The hour of the saving force has now arrived.

  —Externalization of the Hierarchy,

  “DK the Tibetan,” channeled by Alice Bailey, August 9, 1945

  The Uranus cycle begins when the planet reaches its north node … the last heliocentric passage of Uranus over its north node occurred most significantly on July 20, 1945, four days after the first atomic explosion in Alamogordo, New Mexico, which indeed ushered in a new era—for better or worse.… Events do not happen to us; we happen to events.

  —Dane Rudhyar, Astrological Timing

  The most important thing in the life of any man is to discover the secret purpose of his incarnation and follow it with wariness as well as passion … the Uranus in us is the Sacred Lance of the Legend. In the hands of the Holy King it built the Temple of the Grail; in those of Klingsor the Garden of Evil Enchantments.… Uranus is the royal Uraeus Serpent in Egyptian Symbolism, slow yet sudden Lord of life and death. It takes a great deal to move him; but once in motion he is irresistible.… If you do not allow him to create, he will devour.

  —Aleister Crowley, Uranus

  Before I could formulate any real plan of action, I knew I had to find Sam. Terrible as it might be to face him and reveal my many disastrous failures—not least of all, fiddling with Wolfgang while Rome burned—I’d suddenly grasped the fact that, thanks to me, Sam might be in worse danger than when I’d left, if anyone learned he was alive.

  Wolfgang was uncharacteristically quiet for the balance of the trip, which suited me fine. By the time we landed in Idaho, we’d agreed he would go directly to the office and let the Pod, who’d be back from Vienna by now, know we were back safely, too. I would briefly run by my house to drop off my things before coming in to work. The only weapon left in my diminished arsenal was that Wolfgang didn’t yet suspect that I suspected him, so I’d have to act quickly.

  I knew Olivier would be at the office, too, by this time—already ten A.M.—so I thought I could phone Sam’s grandfather, Dark Bear, from home. Though my line might still be bugged, I could at least try to get a message passed to Sam that I was back in town.

  As I came up the road, I saw Olivier’s car in the drive and another car parked up on the road not far from the mailboxes, a compact with rental plates. Since the house nearest ours was some way down the road, it was a safe bet Olivier had company—the very last thing I wanted or needed right now. I had pulled into the drive to turn around and try a new plan when Olivier himself popped his head from the rear door with a slightly wild expression, his dark curly hair more disheveled than usual. He hooked his hand toward me, gesturing me to come inside fast. Against my better judgment I switched off the ignition and got out, dragging my coat and shoulder bag. But before I could speak, Olivier came out and took me firmly by the arm.

  “Where in God’s name have you been?” he hissed, sounding slightly hysterical. “You haven’t returned a single message of mine in two whole weeks! Have you any idea what’s been going on around here?”

  “Not a clue,” I admitted, starting to feel more than frightened. I motioned to the car parked on the road. “Who’s your guest?”

  “Your guest, my dear,” Olivier informed me. “She drove in from Salt Lake late last night and stayed upstairs at my place, where there’s heat. I’ve put her down in your flat just a moment ago, with the little argonaut for company.” She? “As we cowpokes say,” Olivier added glumly as he followed me down the steep steps to my apartment, “I’m afraid we’re all up Shit Creek without a paddle, thanks to you.”

  When I stepped into the living room of my vast root cellar, more than a surprise was in store. At the far corner table was the new half sister I’d spoken to only two days ago from a phone booth at the Vienna airport, Bettina Brunhilde von Hauser.

  Olivier was right: her presence here couldn’t be good news. But I didn’t have to hold my breath. Bambi rose and came across the room. She was wearing another of those amazing jumpsuits, this one a tawny biscotti shade that made her look as if she’d taken a full-body plunge into a caramel vat. Jason trotted by and disdainfully ignored me. I hung my coat and shoulder bag out of reach on the coat rack.

  “Fräulein Behn—I mean Ariel,” Bambi began, quickly correcting herself. “Your Onkel sent me here as soon as he understood how urgent the situation had become.”

  She glanced at Olivier with those gold-flecked eyes, and he flushed a little pink.

  “I guess that’s my cue to make myself scarce,” he said.

  “What for?” I asked him, adding, “Don’t you have my apartment bugged as well as my phone? Or why’s your boss kept you here, spying on me all this time?”

  “I think you should tell her,” Bambi surprised me by informing Olivier. “Tell her what you told me last night. Then I will explain the rest as well as I can.”

  “The group I work for sent me here five years ago, when the Pod first hired you,” Olivier told me. “We weren’t at all certain then which of your family was involved in this complex affair—but we knew plenty about Pastor Dart and his cohorts. We were keeping a very close eye on them. We found it suspicious that Dart would hire you right out of school as a direct report to himself, with so few credentials. Except, of course, the important one: that you were so close with your cousin Sam.”

  Worse and worse. So the Pod was every bit the villain that I’d feared, and that his nickname Prince of Darkness had always proclaimed. But I had one big question:

  “Did Sam know you were spying on me? Or were you spying on him, too, even though he often worked for your boss, Theron Vane?”

  “We’re not spies,” said Olivier. “We’re an international agency along the lines of Interpol, which cooperates across national boundaries in tracking
illicit activities—especially the smuggling of space-age weapons. We’ve learned that many of the people engaged in such activities have managed to infiltrate, at very high levels, institutions responsible for controlling them. High on the list are national drug traffickers, and even the KGB and CIA themselves. We fear they may soon be selling “hot products”—including atomic materials—on the open market, just as they’re currently selling off their own undercover agents to the highest bidder!”

  That was the longest speech I’d ever heard from Olivier, and the most serious, but he still hadn’t answered my question.

  “If you weren’t spying, why was my phone bugged?” I said. “Why were you working undercover? Why did you try to grab the rune manuscript from the post office before I got there?”

  “I was sent here to protect you, as soon as we learned what they were after,” Olivier told me. “Though most often, I’ve wound up protecting you from yourself.”

  Shades of Herr Wolfgang, I thought.

  “Once I saw that rune manuscript through the window of your car, I knew those weren’t the documents your cousin had described to our people. When you stayed to work late at the office, I watched until I saw where you planned to hide it—in the Department of Defense Standard, a marvelous choice! I’ve retrieved it, of course, and made copies, so as not to lose it forever. Bambi says Lafcadio is afraid the other documents, those that belonged to your cousin, have already fallen into her brother’s hands.”

  I actually felt relieved that at least one document, the rune manuscript, existed in more than just the hands of my own family. And also that Olivier had, as I’d hoped, been on my side. But my preoccupation with truth had led to a key observation—that the real danger in these documents might come from another quarter.