Chapter 26
Lita had sent Dr. Gould back to Edinburgh to be exchanged for the Vision of Kvasir. In the High Room of the fortress on Dùn Anlaimh, she paced up and down the length of the room in the mid-morning light. The clouds occasionally drifted apart enough for the sun to peek through, changing her hair from a dark hue to a luminous crimson that bled down to the small of her back. And then, as if her tresses conducted electricity, it would glow and dim, glow and dim with the change in the penetrating light from the vast eastern window that overlooked the water and some of the deserted wet landmass.
“Before I remunerate you, Prof. Lockhart, I want to show you something,” she said without looking at the old man sitting by the round wooden table next to the wall. He watched the tall woman walk from one side to another and back again, immersed in something written on an old time rusted document. The letterhead was that of The Order of the Black Sun and its footer, the Swastika.
“Certainly,” he said and folded his hands over his lap. As an expert on arcane, rare and antique literature, he was always eager to investigate newly discovered material. Professor Røderic had been a client of his since the 1960’s when they met at a symposium in Berlin. Throughout the years, both being members of Ahnenerbe, Lockhart had assisted her diligently in obtaining abstruse material, esoteric literature and most often, illegally traded scrolls from ancient finds not yet catalogued.
“Now that we have procured the vial I went through so much trouble, and men, to get,” she bragged, “I am wasting no time in setting this search in motion. As soon as Slokin returns with the Vision of Kvasir,” she stopped in her tracks and looked at him, “you will be drinking from it, my dear Hermann.”
Lockhart swallowed hard and sat forward in the grand chair. He turned his head sideways to better hear her repeat it, “Excuse me?” He was in disbelief.
“Oh come on, Hermann, you know you want to see where it is.” Lita laughed spitefully, sounding like a spoiled, little girl who played a cruel trick on a friend. She clapped her hands rapidly in glee and pulled up her nose at him.
“So do you! Why don’t you drink it? I am too old for such nonsense. Besides, if it works, my geriatric heart might give in with that poison in my blood,” he whined, not at all afraid of her intentions, but instead vexed by her erratic decision making.
“Oh, stop bitching, Hermann. I’m just as geriatric as you are,” she admitted her age and he was not at all surprised, being one of the few living people who knew what she really was. “Besides, I have to lead the hunt for Valhalla. I can’t be going in and out of trances the whole time. It will have to be you.”
Hermann sighed and sank back in the chair. He dreaded expeditions, being a man of solitude who preferred the indoors. This trip, wherever it would take them in the world, would be the death of him. He loathed travel, especially hiking or taking on rough terrain. Being surrounded by musty documents in small rooms with high ceilings where the only movement was the trickling dust particles illuminated by window lit sunshine — that was Lockhart’s world. That was as far as he was interested in finding Odin’s great Hall of the Slain and whatever bestial wickedness was trapped within.
Lita lit a cigarillo and flicked the hem of her long blue velvet dress walking on the Persian carpet which covered the stone floor. Hermann marveled at the manner in which she moved, so effortlessly, so youthfully.
“Now, I have a good reason for taking you with. After all…” she snickered with a playful wink, “…you are the expert.”
“On paper, yes,” he protested, but she hushed him.
“No, listen to this. You are, according to this memorandum, the best man for the job,” Lita insisted. She sat down and smoked while she held the yellow paper up in the light to read it to him. Lockhart had no idea how she could possibly merge an old Nazi document, with his significance, in drinking poison to induce visions for her to use as a map to Valhalla. But he always humored her and so he poured a sherry and gestured artfully for her to go ahead. As, Lita started reading Professor Lockhart felt his heart stop and his adrenaline rendered him weak in the chair where he sat turning white as a sheet at the scab Lita picked.
“Ahnenerbe Section 16A, blah blah blah. We herewith wish to report on the suggestion by Bruno Schweizer to travel to Iceland, as he had previously undertaken. Blah blah has reason to believe that Iceland harbored considerable treasure pertaining to the research on Aryan heritage as conducted by the Ahnenerbe,” she raised her eyebrow at Hermann, who kept his poker face well intact. She continued heartily, “Heinrich Himmler, Reichsführer-SS and founder of the institute should be notified of any discoveries directly relating to the possible location of unknown weapon blah blah. This is the weapon I am looking for, Hermann.”
“I understand that part, my dear. Still, what does this have to do with me being the unfortunate inebriate?” he asked impatiently, perfectly aware of the damning information in that document he was certain she already perused. Therefore, there would be no need to keep her reading it any farther.
“You are so impatient,” she smiled. It was an evil smile and they both knew that she had Lockhart by the proverbial balls for the rest of his life.
“Hurry up, I have other engagements,” he sighed nonchalantly.
“Alright, I’ll skip ahead,” she said, bursting with excitement at what she wanted to reveal she knew. “Then it tells here of how a secret expedition to Iceland was undertaken, secretly funded by a few elite members of the Ahnenerbe, but… wait for it… without the knowledge of Himmler and his administration!” Her face was now just insufferable, distorted in a childlike expression of surprise that was simply meant as patronization. “Apparently an SS officer, um, Obersturmführer Hans Krieger, undertook this trip to Iceland after finding a remnant of Viking treasure, reportedly originating from the tribes of Odin. Then it says this officer took with him a woman and her son, while her younger daughter was left in the care of the SS as surety. You see,” she said, amused, and turned to face Lockhart straight, “they needed to know that the woman who knew where Valhalla was, would not take them on a wild goose chase lest her young daughter be fed to the gas chamber!” Lita laughed. “Genius, isn’t it?”
Lockhart shrugged, “Age old insurance tactics.”
“Now this is the best part,” she continued, and Lockhart felt his heart rate increase. “While her son was left similarly, at the hotel, the woman reportedly was forced to take the Obersturmführer to the site of which he wrote down the coordinates and continued to pry his way into the sacred place. But while he was in Iceland, his colleagues discovered his ploy and so the SS sent a killer to track him,” Lita indirectly read from the document.
Now and then she looked up to see if Lockhart was becoming uncomfortable yet, but he remained unresponsive. She may have thought his straight face was for his attempts at denying what he knew, but in truth he was again caught in the dreadful reminiscence of that painful long past incident and he hardly heard what Lita said anymore. He knew the story. He knew the ending too.
“Anyway,” she carried on with zeal, “when the killer came to the hotel he only found the boy, so he took him to point out the location…”