“I had some good fortune.”
“And the swastika is an ancient symbol of good fortune in Tibet, is it not?”
“Yes, Reichsfuhrer. You see it everywhere.”
“Have you ever wondered why?”
“An Eastern invention, I suppose.”
“Or an Aryan invention, and a connection between our Aryan ancestors and the inhabitants of Tibet. It is a symbol of the god Thor. Fifty years ago Guido von List made it a symbol of the Thule Society’s neo-pagan movement. A key to our racial past in the high Himalayas, we could speculate.”
“You think the Tibetans are Aryans?”
“Their royalty, perhaps, are our cousins. There are theories.” Himmler bent to the folder and summarized its contents. “Invited to hunt with Air Minister Goring, lectures in London and Heidelberg, a lovely young wife”-the Reichsfuhrer paused, looking at Raeder over the rim of his glasses-“who you killed.”
Now the sweat again. “Accidentally.” He felt continually off-balance in this interview. Was that purposeful?
“Bitter tragedy. Hunting, was it not?”
“I was swinging a shotgun on a flight of ducks and stumbled on another loaded weapon on the bottom of our boat. It went off. Lotte died instantly.” That was the official story. His tone was hollow, remembering the horror, guilt, and relief. Her blood had pooled to the floorboards. Her brains had spattered the water. He’d felt trapped by Lotte’s family, which had grown suspicious of his needs. And now? “It was inexcusably clumsy.”
No, it wasn’t. Did the Kripo, the criminal police, suspect?
“The kind of cruel memory that can only be expunged by new experience,” Himmler said briskly, flipping a page. “By returning, perhaps, to Tibet, but this time without the Americans. Returning with men from my organization’s Ancestral Heritage Research and Teaching Society, the Ahnenerbe, which studies our Aryan past. Are you hard enough, committed enough, to lead an SS team there, Raeder?”
The zoologist swallowed. Here was what he’d hoped for, dreamed of, now offered despite-or was it because of?-the bitter memory of Lotte’s death. “If called on by the Fatherland, Reichsfuhrer.”
Himmler snapped the folder shut. “You have ample reason to desire a change of pace, to forget the past, to put all your energies into a mission for the Reich. Germany has a bright future, Raeder. If you succeed, it will make any lingering questions about the end of your marriage irrelevant. If you fail…”
He swallowed. “I understand.” His heart was pounding, which annoyed him. Control.
“Did you have apprehension about today’s visit, Untersturmfuhrer ?”
“Any man would be nervous at meeting so august a personality…”
“Any man would be frightened.” Himmler waved his hand to acknowledge the obvious. He enjoyed the fear, Raeder realized. He drew strength from it. He reveled in the black uniforms. Himmler had longed to serve in World War I, missing by a year. “And yet tell me, Raeder, am I really that intimidating? I, a man who only wants to secure the future of the German Reich?”
“I appreciate…”
“I am direct because I have to be. I mentioned the unfortunate death of your wife because I don’t like things unsaid, sticking to the corners of normal conversation. I do unpleasant things for our Fuhrer , blunt things, direct things, so that he can fulfill his destiny without their burden. He sees what ordinary men cannot. He leads our purification.”
“The Fuhrer is a remarkable man.” He felt like Hitler’s picture was looking down on them.
“ ‘Why Tibet?’ you wonder. Does the chicken farmer Himmler want more bird skins from Asia?” He gave that thin smile. “No, more than that. Much more, Raeder, more than you’ve ever dreamed in your life. So I want you to visit me in my SS headquarters near Padenborn, the new center of the world.”
“Center of the world?”
“I’m inviting you to be my guest at Wewelsburg Castle. I want you to understand the full meaning of your mission in the place I’m making the true heart of our organization. Bring your maps of Tibet, Raeder.”
“And my goal, Reichsfuhrer?”
“To help conquer the world. Bring your maps, in one week’s time.”
4
Seattle, United States
September 4, Present Day
F rozen foods guy rolled off Rominy and hauled her upward with arms around her rib cage, breasts lifted, delicacy ignored. “I tried to warn you but you kept moving away,” he said. “I feared they’d try this.”
“What happened?”
“You almost died.”
A contact had popped out. People were beginning to shout and run. In the distance she could hear sirens. Christ, it was downtown Baghdad. Her head, hands, and knees hurt and the bastard had just about crushed her torso. Her purse had spilled. “Who are you?” Rominy’s voice was thick.
“At the moment, the only friend you have.” He pulled on her arm. “Come on.”
She shook loose. “Let go of me!”
He grabbed her again, persistent and impatient. His fingers hurt as they clamped. “Come on, if you don’t want us both to die!”
“My purse.”
Holding her by one arm with an iron grip, he stooped to scoop things into her handbag and brought it up, tucking it under his arm. “Good catch. We don’t want to give them more information than they already have.” Then, dragged by his pull, she began to stagger away from the wreckage of her car. People hung back, bewildered. Someone’s cart had spilled and bright oranges spotted the pavement. The air didn’t just have a smoky smell, it had a chemical taste, and she realized her teeth ached from clenching. Her assailant, or savior, was pushing her toward a banged-up Ford pickup that was nothing like her late, lamented dream mobile. She clutched her arms to her aching torso. All her energy had been sapped by the shock of the explosion.
“Are you abducting me?” she asked dully.
“I told you, I’m rescuing you.” He shoved her into the cab, pushing on her butt without apology, and the door slammed shut. She looked at it foggily, trying to decide if she should flee. Her body felt sluggish.
“Rescuing me from what?” she asked as he climbed in the driver’s side.
He threw her purse into her lap. “Don’t you mean from whom?” He started the engine. The pickup was a stick shift like her MINI Cooper. Everything was a dream.
“Wait.” She looked outside. Blue lights were coming fast. “Police!”
He pulled away from the curb. “They can’t help.” He sounded grim.
The pickup swerved to let a fire truck pass and then accelerated. It was old enough to have locking knobs on the door by the window, but hers was missing. Had he locked her in? She tried the door handle and her heart sank. The lever jiggled uselessly. This was her worst nightmare. She was an idiot, a victim.
“Listen, I know you’re freaked out,” Frozen Foods said. “I am, too. I didn’t know they’d go this far. This whole thing is a royal mess. I just want to give us a little space in case the skinheads are hanging. Look behind. Are we being followed?”
Rominy looked out the dirty rear cab window. There was a gun rack behind: classic rural Washington. Was her rescuer, or kidnapper, from some gawd-awful backwoods Deliverance den like Twisp or Mossyrock? There was a chrome toolbox that spanned the width of the pickup bed, and surely there’d be a chain saw inside. Or maybe Leatherface here kept it back home in his creepy cabin.
“How would I know?” She had a headache.
“Any tough-looking guys with shaved heads?”
She looked. Following windshields seemed opaque. No, there was a driver… but with big hair, as puffed as a TV anchoress doing a storm report.
“No.”
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…