William Dietrich: Blood of the Reich

Her head was beginning to clear, and she was in the one place she’d vowed never to be, locked in a vehicle with a stranger hurtling toward god-knew-where. She had no weapon, no clue, no… wait.

She did have her purse again. Frozen Foods guy had made a mistake. Hallelujah. Cell phone, car keys-now useless, she realized with sorrow-Tic-Tacs, a tissue packet, lipstick she rarely used, ChapStick she did, compact with mirror, business cards of her own, business cards of boring software clients she’d immediately forgotten and had failed to file, a packaged condom with an embarrassingly old shelf date, a wallet with thirty-two dollars (she had been going to get twenty more on her debit card at Safeway), forgotten souvenir wristband from a Dave Matthews concert, glasses…

She popped out her other contact and put on the spectacles. Her sight hadn’t been lost after all. Somewhere in there was a comb with a wicked pointed handle. Nail clippers. Loose earrings with a tip; she had inserted studs for shopping and brought along the others in case Erica texted about Happy Hour.

A veritable arsenal.

Frozen Foods glanced at her. “You wear glasses.”

“Duh.”

“They look nice.”

She regarded him with disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No, I mean…” He looked impatient but also somewhat intriguingly frustrated. Was he frightened, too? “Look, we’re going to be friends, okay?”

“The pickup door won’t open.”

“It’s an old truck.”

“Stop and let me out.”

“It’s not safe.”

“I can’t even roll down the window.”

“Give me a chance, Rominy.” It was a plea, not a threat.

She took a breath. “Tell it to the cops.” She pulled out her cell phone. How did he know her name?

“If you dial that, they’ll track us.”

“Who will track us?”

“The guys who blew up your car.”

“And who are they?” Her finger was poised.

“Men who are looking into your past like I have.”

“I don’t have a past worth looking into.”

“I’m afraid you do. I’m an investigator.”

“Is that why you have a gun?”

“What? I don’t have a gun. Wish I did, right now.”

“I saw it on your waist. In the grocery store.”

“This?” He pulled his jacket aside. “It’s my cell phone. What, you think I’m a dick? A private eye?”

“More along the lines of a serial killer. And where’s the twelve-gauge to fit into the gun rack here?”

“I’m a reporter for the Seattle Times. Investigative journalist with low pay, stingy budget, and an eye for a Ford pickup deal when he sees one. She’s a beast when I punch the gas, though I pay for her eight cylinders at the pump. The environmental writer gives me hell.” He held out his hand. “Jake Barrow. Harmless, when I’m not behind a typewriter. Or, well, terminal.”

She didn’t shake his hand but set her phone in her lap, still gripping it. “You tackled me like a linebacker.”

“You’re not the first girl to complain about my lack of finesse. Look, I’m new at this, too.”

“New at what?”

“Hiding from the bad guys.”

“What bad guys? And why are you looking into my past?” Her fist curled around her comb. How could she get out? Stab and climb over him at a stoplight, maybe. Make a scene. Holler. Anything but wait like a nitwit. Did she have the courage? Did he deserve her doubt?

He glanced, as if to seek alliance.

But then he accelerated up an on-ramp, merging into crowded Interstate 5 heading north, and took a breath, hesitating. She glanced back. The Space Needle was receding like some signpost to reality, Lake Union shimmering like a mirage.

“Because you’re not really Rominy Pickett.”

Wewelsburg Castle, Germany

March 30, 1938

T wo hundred miles west of Berlin, in the Westphalian countryside not far from where Arminius had destroyed Varus’s Roman legions in A.D. 9, a triangular sixteenth-century castle crowned a rocky outcrop above the village of Wewelsburg. The triangle’s apex pointed, with less deviation than a compass needle, to true north.

“The Reichsfuhrer ’s Camelot,” said the SS pilot who’d flown Raeder from Berlin. Bruno Halder banked the light civilian Messerschmitt and circled to give the zoologist a view. “Its reconstruction is far from complete, but there are plans the castle will be the tip of a spear-shaped complex of modern buildings. A ceremonial avenue will provide the lance’s shaft. The Spear of Destiny, inspired by the legendary lance that pierced Christ. The village will have to be relocated, of course.”

“I’d not heard of this.”

“The Reichsfuhrer is not a show-off like Goring.” Halder made the disparagement casually, secure in his own SS rank, and aimed for a nearby airfield as they dropped steeply. “Himmler’s mission is veiled. No air shows, no medals. But he’s far more visionary. A romantic, actually. Below you, Raeder, is the place that will someday be known as the birthplace of modern man.”

“What does that mean?”

“Its Aryan future. And a crypt for its leaders. Camelot, as I said.”

“Beautiful,” Raeder said politely, confused but still flattered to be flying-a first-and enjoying the vista over the greening countryside. “Almost too beautiful for the Schutzstaffel.”

“It has its own austerity, as you’ll see. The castle even has a Hexenkeller, a witches’ cellar. They burned more than fifty witches down there in the seventeenth century. Not so long ago, really.” He cut the power and the plane bounced as it landed.

It was dusk when a staff car delivered them to the castle gate. The village of Wewelsburg was subdued, its streets empty, house lights veiled behind lace curtains. Raeder sensed people peeking at them as they drove past. When they got out of the auto at the ramp across a dry moat, the only sound was of jackdaws crowing. Then German shepherd guard dogs on chains sent up cacophonous barking, their teeth phosphorescent in the gloom.

The gate wood was blond, varnished, and obviously new, carved with swastikas and the twin lightning-bolt runes of the SS. Sentries stood like statues and torches burned like a medieval dream. It was a Renaissance castle, meaning broad glass windows instead of narrow arrow slits, but most were dark. There were towers at the three corners, the southern ones domed with roofs like a homburg hat. After scrutiny by the guards, Raeder and Halder were ushered inside.

The courtyard was curiously claustrophobic, a narrow triangle with walls as sheer inside as out. At the northern apex, a fat round tower with flat roof was surrounded by scaffolding. There were lumber, planks, piles of stones, and bags of mortar.

“Modernized?” Raeder asked.

“Reimagined. The Reichsfuhrer has selected it as a spiritual home for our order. A labor camp is being constructed to implement his visionary plan. Slaves have been screened to find the best craftsmen. Wewelsburg will be a capital, a Vatican, for the SS. This will be a center of scholarship for inquiries into the origins of the Germanic people and the Aryan race. There will be a planetarium at the crown of the North Tower and a crypt for Reich leadership in its cellar. Reichsfuhrer Himmler sees across centuries, Raeder. He’s a prophet.”

“It is our Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler, who is the prophet.”

The correction was mild, professorial, but spoken with authority. They snapped to attention and wheeled. There was Himmler studying his own creation, dressed in military greatcoat, jodhpurs, and boots. He stood very straight. Since the interview in Berlin, Raeder had read about his superior. At Hitler’s failed 1923 putsch, Himmler had carried the staff of the Imperial Eagle as proudly as a schoolboy.