He shook the image from his mind, and forced himself to concentrate on the plan on the clipboard. ‘Albert Speer took over Organisation Todt, didn’t he?’
Penn nodded. ‘From 1942. But that’s the odd thing. None of the paperwork was signed by Todt or by Speer. All we found were three sheets in a partly incinerated folder on the floor of the front office, beside a brazier. Someone had clearly been trying to burn it all, but must have left in a hurry. They were the usual Nazi foolscap order papers, with minutiae of costings for materials: concrete, steel girders, electrical and other equipment. But it was bizarre. Each of them had been approved and signed by the Reichsfuhrer-SS, Heinrich Himmler.’
Hiebermeyer froze. ‘You’re sure of it?’
‘I know his signature. When I was studying Nazi construction design, I looked at some of the surviving documentation for Wewelsburg Castle, his SS headquarters in Westphalia. It reveals the same personal involvement and obsession with detail that Himmler showed with the Final Solution. Wewelsburg was Himmler’s private fiefdom, really nothing to do with Hitler, actually owned by Himmler himself since the early 1930s and as much his private fantasy as Hitler’s mad dream for his new capital at his home town of Linz in Austria. The papers we found in the bunker would fit perfectly within the archive for Wewelsburg, the same kind of thing. Though why Himmler should have had a personal involvement with a secret bunker in an obscure part of Lower Saxony is anyone’s guess.’
The light above the door went green, and Penn picked up a phone hanging on the wall, waiting for a response. Hiebermeyer felt a chill course through him. Heinrich Himmler. The image of that pasty face, the boyish grin, the nervous movements, seemed to be imprinted on his mind. As a student, Hiebermeyer had made a special study of the Ahnenerbe, Himmler’s Department of Cultural Heritage, and had read everything he could about its expeditions to uncover evidence of Aryan roots, expeditions that took Nazi scientists around the world as well as deep into German prehistory. It had been the only time that Hiebermeyer’s fascination with Egyptology had taken a back seat; it became a moral crusade he later recognized as a young man’s attempt at expiation, at combining his archaeological fascination with a need to grapple with the Nazi past that was part of his own heritage as a German. He had wanted to reveal all he could about artefacts and sites uncovered by the Ahnenerbe, to discover what was worthwhile. But in the end he had found it impossible to disentangle reality from fiction, the real archaeology from the monstrous edifice of lies and fantasy, of twisted racial theory that made the archaeology an inextricable part of the story of hate and murder.
And behind it lay the man who more than all the other Nazis saw himself as a living god. When he viewed those newsreels and photographs, Hiebermeyer saw Himmler not as Hitler’s faithful acolyte but as absolute master of that world, as if all that was needed was a trick of the mind to create an alternative Nazi reality run by Himmler rather than by Hitler. For Hiebermeyer, the end of his project had come when he had interviewed a former Wehrmacht officer who had known Himmler in Berlin. Behind this man, the officer had said, one realized that there was something horrifying. By then Hiebermeyer had known that there could be no expiation, and that the version of the past created by this monster was a far bigger lesson from history than the stories that he might have been able to tease out of artefacts wrenched forever from their contexts and incorporated into the fabric of Nazi ideology.
Penn put down the phone, then looked at Hiebermeyer. ‘Okay. They’re almost ready.’ He paused. ‘Himmler wasn’t obsessed with art like Goering, so it’s hard to believe that this bunker was built primarily as a private vault to secure a cache of paintings. That wasn’t like him. And there was something else, really curious. The folder we found with those papers had been marked Streng Geheim, “Top Secret”, odd enough for a group of construction order forms. But odder still was a strange symbol, a reverse swastika in red, and some words I’d never seen before. I know Himmler was obsessed with ancient heroes and kings, and Jack said that some of Schliemann’s lost treasures from Troy might be here. That’s what really got me. It was the name of the most famous king of the Greeks, from the Trojan Wars. They said Der Agamemnon Code.’
Hiebermeyer stared at him. ‘ Mein Gott. When did you find this?’
‘About two hours ago, during my last shift in there. You’re the first outside our group to hear about it.’
Hiebermeyer remembered the whole horror story that might lie behind this bunker: the fear of a Wunderwaffe, a wonder-weapon; not some deranged Nazi fantasy, but something real, a terrible weapon that may have lain unused for all these years. A doomsday weapon. He glanced at Penn. How much had Jack told him? Six months ago, they had learned that the Agamemnon Code was an activation signal for a covert Nazi scheme in the final months of the war, a scheme that they could only guess about but which was linked with this place. He remembered all the evidence they had marshalled last year, all the speculation, and he had a sudden cold thought. ‘Tell me something,’ he asked quietly. ‘Those order lists. Did you see there anything out of the ordinary? Any strange equipment?’
Penn hesitated. ‘There’s a guy in there now, our translator. He’s an expert on Nazi documents. We can’t risk taking anything out of this place and exposing it, so we have to do all of our work inside. I just had a quick word with him on the phone. He knows you’re German and wants your opinion on his translation. But the third sheet does contain something out of the ordinary. Something pretty bad, I’m afraid.’ He paused, again pursing his lips. ‘It’s laboratory equipment: Bunsen burners, test tubes, refrigerators, a centrifuge. That’s worrying enough, but there’s equipment not just for a lab, but for a medical lab: syringes, chloroform, metal gurneys with restraining straps, huge quantities of lime. It’s what we always hope we won’t find in these places, but it’s why all of these precautions are necessary.’ He looked at Hiebermeyer. ‘You can bail out now. Works of art are one thing, but this other stuff is way beyond your remit. We could be walking into a chamber of horrors.’
Hiebermeyer shook his head and took off his glasses, blinking to get used to the blur. Sergeant Jones came up behind him and placed the helmet on the sealing ring around his neck, locking it in place and hooking up the hoses from the oxygen tank. He was closed off again, in another kind of tunnel. He heard the suck and rasp of his breathing on the oxygen regulator. He felt the sweat drip down his nose and over his lips, and he blinked it out of his eyes. He knew he was not sweating from the heat. He was sweating from fear.
‘All set?’ Penn’s voice sounded peculiar, tinny, through the earphones inside the helmet. Hiebemeyer looked across, and gave him a diver’s okay sign.
‘If you need to come out, you tell me. Otherwise we have one hour.’
‘I’m following you.’
Penn opened the door to the airlock chamber and Hiebermeyer followed him inside, squeezing into the confined space. Sergeant Jones slammed the door behind them, and he could hear the cross-bolt being dropped. They were in total darkness, and all he could hear was the hiss of their oxygen regulators. Then the inside door swung open, and Hiebermeyer walked into his worst nightmare.
7
South-eastern Black Sea
J ack turned in his chair as the door to the operations room on Seaquest II opened and two men entered. One had long, lank hair swept to the side, and was unusually neatly attired in trousers and a pressed shirt that must have been dug up especially for the visit by the inspection team. Dr Jacob Lanowski was one of IMU’s most unusual assets, an engineering genius from Caltech and MIT whose capacity for lateral thinking was matched by his eccentric character. He had the pale face and shadowy eyes of someone who spent most of his waking hours hunched in front of a computer screen, whereas the tall young man beside him was bronzed and fit, wearing old army trousers and a khaki T-shirt that was still streaked with the dust of Troy. Jack had first met Jeremy Haverstock four years earlier at the Institute of Palaeography in Oxford, where Jeremy had been completing a doctorate on early-medieval scripts supervised by Jack’s old girlfriend Maria de Montijo, director of the institute. After their first project together researching Viking exploration, Jack had persuaded Jeremy not to return to an academic career in America but instead to take up a position with IMU, and since then he had gone from strength to strength. Like Lanowski, he was an expert in his field but had diverse talents, exactly what Jack looked for in a team member, in Jeremy’s case a boyhood fascination with robotics engineering that had quickly cemented his friendship with Costas.