The Blood and Soil programme not only cultivated the virtues of rural living, but sought to preserve Germany’s farming communities from the deadening onslaught of industrialization. Unlike factory work, there was meaning and purpose to working the land. It engendered a sense of self-sufficiency that enabled one to resist the empty lure of materialism. More importantly, the programme recognized that the Germanic spirit was created by the pure blood that they collectively shared as a nation. And as a People. Blood is what nurtured love of the Fatherland. What better way to express that love than tending to the land?
Lost in the memories of that long-ago autumn, Ivo recalled how, in the evenings, after the boys had eaten their thick peasant sandwiches smeared with zuckerrüben sirup, they practised their military drills while they recited proverbs from the Hávámal, the famous poem in the Old Norse Edda. To this day, he could still recite the stanzas that recounted how Wotan, the great Proto-Germanic god, sacrificed himself by thrusting a spear into his own side as he ‘hung on a windy tree nine long nights’. Unlike the effeminate Christian saviour, Wotan was a heroic god who refused to wait passively for his enemies to nail him to a cross. Instead, Wotan decided for himself the hour of his death.
Suddenly hearing a heavy footfall, Ivo peered over his shoulder, annoyed that his driver, Dolf Reinhardt, had entered the salon. The tailored black suit with its matching chauffeur’s cap did little to disguise the man’s massive build and brutish features. In the crook of his right arm, Dolf awkwardly clutched a miniature Schnauzer.
‘Herr Doktor, forgive me for interrupting,’ he said with a diffident nod. ‘But there’s been a new development.’
Ivo listened intently to the update.
Delighted to hear that McGuire was in Paris, one side of his mouth curved in a half-smile. ‘Just as we thought … David has come to slay Goliath.’
Little did the commando know that this Philistine warrior was insuperable.
Two days ago, to the Seven’s astonished relief, they had learned that Finnegan McGuire had stolen Fabius Jutier’s laptop computer from the French Embassy. An ill-considered stratagem as the embedded GPS microchip had enabled them to track the American’s every move.
If they could get their hands on the Montségur Medallion in the next few hours, they would still have three days to decipher the map and find the Lapis Exillis. It could be done.
It had to be done.
‘I require the services of the Dark Angel.’ Still smiling, Ivo smoothed a withered hand over the Schnauzer’s salt-and-pepper beard. ‘Wolfgang seems anxious. A walk in the Tuileries will do us both good.’
22
Shirt buttoned, shoes donned and red hair pulled into a ponytail, Aisquith entered the book nook carrying a silver tray.
Finn assumed the make-over was for Kate’s benefit, not his.
‘The alchemist Paracelsus claimed that lemon balm tea was the elixir of life. Although given that he only lived to the age of forty-eight, I wouldn’t put much stock in the great alchemist’s lofty claim,’ the Brit said as he deposited the tray on an ornately carved Chinese tea table. Like everything else in the joint, it was covered in a dusty veneer.
Making herself at home, Kate tucked a leg under her hip. ‘I once read that Paracelsus was the first to discover that goiters were caused by toxic levels of lead in the drinking water. A remarkable discovery for the early sixteenth century,’ she added, clearly enthralled by the obscure topic.
Their host handed each of them a dainty cup and saucer.
Having no friggin’ idea who Paracelsus was, Finn raised the cup to his nose and took a wary sniff. Unable to detect anything other than a faint lemony scent, he took a tentative sip.
‘I hope the scones aren’t too stale,’ the other man said as he extended a chipped plate in Kate’s direction.
‘Yummy. Cherry scones are my favourite. And I don’t care if they are stale.’
Smiling, Aisquith peered over his shoulder at Finn. ‘I vividly recall the first time that I set eyes on our fair Kate at Oxford. She was sitting in a medieval oriel reading Spinoza, backlit by the morning sun streaming through three-hundred-year-old glass.’
Stunned by the jaw-dropper, Finn shot Kate a questioning glance. ‘You went to Oxford?’
‘I was a, um, Rhodes Scholar,’ she demurred. As though embarrassed by the admission, she smiled nervously.
A Rhodes Scholar? Hell, he knew she was smart. He just didn’t know she was that smart. For some crazy-ass reason, it upped her appeal another notch. That he was even remotely attracted to Kate Bauer bothered the hell out of him. He was on a mission. He did not need a distraction. But there it was, all curled up in a wingback chair, nibbling on a cherry scone. The fact that he was attracted to Kate made him dislike Aisquith even more. Once upon a time, the two of them had had an intimate relationship. Something he only got to dream about.
Cup, saucer and scone in hand, Aisquith planted his ass in the vacant wingback. ‘So, how may I be of assistance?’
‘Actually, Kate and I are, um –’ In need of a quick lie, Finn glanced around the dusty shop. Inspired, he said ‘– collaborating on a book.’
One red brow noticeably lifted.
‘Yes! That’s right!’ Kate exclaimed, exuberantly latching on to the lie. ‘And during the course of our research we discovered some interesting symbols that we hoped you might be able to decipher.’
‘Indeed?’ The brow lowered as blood-shot eyes narrowed suspiciously. While he looked like a skewered shit kebob, the Brit didn’t miss a beat.
Stepping over to the tea table, Finn snagged a cherry scone off the plate. ‘According to my writing partner, you’re the go-to guy when it comes to symbols and myths. A real Oxford don.’
‘Ghosts of genius past,’ Aisquith mumbled as he took a sip of his tea. ‘And what, may I ask, is the topic of this joint literary effort?’
‘Like Kate said, we’re still in the research phase,’ Finn hedged. As he spoke, he shoved a hand into his left trouser pocket, retrieving his phone. Out of habit he always kept his cash and cell phone on the left side, freeing his right hand to reach for a weapon. Or to be used as a weapon if need be. ‘This is a digital photo of a tattoo. Don’t ask the name of the tattoo model; we never did get a positive ID.’ He passed his cell phone to Aisquith.
‘Mmmm … interesting. This tattoo is a Nazi design rooted in the esoteric,’ Aisquith intoned, setting the cell phone on top of the Chinese table. ‘While I get the odd request for books on esoteric Nazism, I refuse to stock them. Matter of principle. My grandfather was one of the prosecuting attorneys at Nuremberg.’
Finn spared a quick glance at his ‘writing partner’. Back in DC, Kate had made the same claim about the tattoo, thinking it might have something to do with the esoteric. He thought now what he did then – big crock of shit.
‘The horrific particulars of Nazi history are familiar enough,’ Aisquith continued. ‘In the aftermath of the First World War, the National Socialist Party rose to power, an embittered firebrand by the name of Adolf Hitler at the helm. The mustachioed Führer envisioned a new world order ruled by the Aryan master race. His egomaniacal ambitions led to the invasion of Europe; his demonization of the Jews led to the terrors of the Holocaust.’ As he spoke, Aisquith reached for the teapot and freshened Kate’s cup. ‘When all was said and done, the death toll stood at sixty million. But there is another chapter to the story, one frequently absent from the history books. And that pertains to the little-known fact that a good many of the Nazi top command were adherents of the occult.’