The Black Sun (25 page)

In 1934, a hundred-year lease had been taken out on the castle and its grounds. The signatory? A certain Heinrich Himmler. His plan, which was rapidly put into effect, was to establish the castle not just as an Aryan research and learning center but as the spiritual home of the SS, a place as sacred to the Aryan race as Marienburg had been to the medieval Teutonic Knights.

To

that

end,

each

room

commemorated

a

legendary

Nordic

214 james twining

hero or a pivotal moment in Aryan history. One room had even been set aside to house the Holy Grail, on the assumption that Himmler’s men would eventually succeed in their quest to find it.

Himmler’s own quarters had been dedicated to King Heinrich I, founder of the first German Reich. Apparently not only had Himmler believed himself to be the earthly reincarnation of Heinrich’s spirit, he had also believed he would be endowed with supernatural powers once he was able to locate the legendary island of Thule—a supposedly lost civilization that he spent vast sums trying to locate— and make contact with the “Ancients.”

To Tom, it all sounded horribly familiar, echoing Lasche’s account of the hate-filled ideology with which Himmler had shaped and inspired the SS to new heights of inhumanity. But there was an even darker edge to the story. A concentration camp, brutal even by Nazi standards, had been established close by in order to provide slave labor for the alterations needed to bring the castle in line with Himmler’s aspirations. And even though the castle was never fully operational, or indeed finished, it was rumored that pagan, even satanic rituals had been conducted within its dark walls. As if to emphasize Tom’s thoughts, the castle chose that moment to loom out from behind the skeletal vault of interlocking branches that had previously masked it, its mullioned windows glinting like animals’ eyes in the yellow sweep of their headlights before slinking back into the cold embrace of the surrounding forest.

A small church stood silhouetted against the night sky as they rounded the final corner, its steeple casting a long shadow on the ground. Tom killed the lights and put the car into neutral, and they silently coasted the final hundred yards in the moonlight, a fox slinking lazily back into the undergrowth as they approached. Archie broke the silence as the car came to rest in front of what Dominique identified as the old SS guardhouse, now a museum.

“Well, we’re definitely in the right place,” he said. Tom nodded. The castle was unquestionably

the

one

in

the

photo

the black sun 215

of the Bellak painting recovered from Weissman’s secret room and the stained-glass window commissioned by Lammers.

“I thought you said Himmler had had it destroyed?” Tom asked.

“He did,” Dominique replied. “Or at least, he tried to. Following his orders, it was blown up in March 1945, but the ceremonial hall and the crypt in the north tower survived pretty much intact. The rest of the castle was rebuilt after the war.”

Tom turned to face Archie and Dom’s expectant faces. “You’re sure it’s empty?”

“It’s a youth hostel and a museum these days, but it’s pretty quiet this time of year. There won’t be anyone around until morning.”

They got out of the car. It was drizzling, a thick, icy rain. Tom opened the trunk and took out two large packs; he handed one to Archie and strapped the other to his back. Then he turned to survey the castle walls.

The wide moat, no doubt once a formidable obstacle, had long since been drained, its formerly treacherous banks now sheltering a manicured garden. A narrow stone bridge supported by two arches led across the void to the castle’s main entrance, an arched doorway surmounted by an ornately carved bay window. This was presumably a later addition, given its frivolous variance from the building’s stern aspect. They crossed the bridge to the imposing main gate, a solid wall of oak inset with six large roundels. Unsurprisingly, it was bolted shut, so Tom set to work on the narrow door set into it. Within a few seconds the rudimentary lock sprang open. They stepped into a short vaulted passageway that in turn gave onto the castle’s triangular courtyard, the yellow glow from a few lanterns vanishing into the shadows. Apart from the muted drumming of the rain, it was eerily quiet and still, the wind seemingly

unable

or

unwilling

to

penetrate

this

cobbled

sanctuary.

216 james twining

Dominique gestured toward a doorway in the base of the North Tower, a wide, squat circle of stone that loomed portentously above them, blocking out the night sky. By comparison, the two other, more delicate, towers that they could just about make out above the roof’s steep slope seemed as if they might flex in a strong wind. They approached the door, the walls closing in on them as the sides of the triangle met, an ancient inscription indicating that this had once been the entrance to a chapel. The door was unlocked and they stepped inside, only to find an iron grille blocking their way. Tom reached for his flashlight and pointed it through the bars, revealing a large chamber. Twelve stone pillars encircled the room and supported a succession of low arches that gracefully framed the slender windows set into the tower walls. But his eyes settled almost immediately on the floor. At the center of the floor, black marble had been laid in the now familiar shape of a disc surrounded by two further circles, with twelve runic lightning bolts radiating from its center. The Black Sun.

“This was the Hall of the Supreme Leaders,” Dominique whispered. “A place where the SS staged ritual ceremonies.”

“You make them sound almost religious,” observed Archie.

“In many ways, they were,” Dominique agreed. “Him-mler’s doctrine of unquestioning obedience was inspired by the Jesuits. The SS was more like a fanatical religious sect than a military organization, with Himmler as Pope and Hitler as God.”

“Is all this original?” Tom asked, surprised at the room’s condition.

“It’s been restored.”

“Well, in that case, whatever we’re looking for won’t be here, or they’d have found it,”

Tom said. “Where’s the crypt you mentioned?”

“As far as I recall, directly underneath us. But we need to go back outside to get to it.”

She

led

them

back

through

the

main

gate,

which

they

shut

the black sun 217

behind them, and across the bridge, the wind whistling through the two arches below. To their left, a flight of steps led down to the floor of the moat, where two doors had been set into the base of the east wall.

“That one,” she whispered, pointing at the right-hand door.

It was locked, although again it was only a matter of seconds before Tom had it creaking open. They stepped into a vaulted passage, and Dominique indicated with a wave of her flashlight the narrow staircase that led off to their right. The staircase ended at another iron grille, which Tom had to pick open. Dominique located the light switch on the wall outside before following Tom and Archie inside.

The circular crypt was about twenty or thirty feet across and looked to be of solid construction, the walls built from carved stone blocks, the floor of polished limestone. A vaulted ceiling climbed perhaps fifteen feet above their heads. In the middle of the room was a round stone pit with two steps leading down to a shallow depression at its center. It was to this smaller circle that Tom went, stopping in the middle, directly beneath the apex of the ceiling.

“Look.” Archie pointed his flashlight up above Tom’s head. The outline of a swastika, made from a different-col-ored stone, was clearly visible above.

“What was this place?” Tom asked.

“A sort of SS burial ground, apparently,” said Dominique. “Presumably a final resting place at the center of the universe for the spirits of the Order when they passed away.”

Her voice had a strange deadened timbre, no echoes despite the confined space, as if every sound was being absorbed into the walls.

Tom looked curiously around him. Four light wells were set high into the thick walls, narrow shafts that angled steeply toward the night.

“According to Himmler, the center of the world lay not in Jerusalem or Rome or Mecca but here, in the hills of Westphalia,” she explained. “He planned to build a massive SS

complex

composed

of

a

series

of

concentric

fortifications,

218 james twining

barracks, and houses that radiated out for miles from where

you’re standing.”

Tom looked down at his feet and shifted uncomfortably.

“At that precise spot an eternal flame was to be lit,” she continued. “And although the guidebooks don’t mention the Order by name, the theory is that the ashes of senior SS

leaders were to be placed on one of these . . .” She crossed to the wall and indicated a low stone pedestal that Tom had not noticed before. He looked around him and saw that there was a total of twelve identical pedestals spaced around the chamber’s walls. “Clearly, the Order were to remain united in death as they had been in life.”

“Then this is where we’ll start,” said Tom, stamping on the stone floor. “Where the flame was to have burned. Right under the swastika. At the center of their world.”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

2:51 a.m.

Crouching in the pit, Tom and Archie set to work chiseling away at the mortar surrounding the large stone set into the center of the floor. It was slow, painful work, the hammer handles slippery in their grasp, the vibrations through the steel chisel stinging their fingers despite the strips of rubber used to muffle the blows. After five or ten minutes, however, the sound of metal striking stone gave way to another, unexpected sound.

“There’s something under here,” said Archie excitedly.

They levered the first stone out, then set to work on the ones surrounding it, eventually clearing a wide area and revealing the outline of a three-foot-square metal plate, about half an inch thick.

“Use this.” Dominique handed Tom a long metal spike from one of the packs. Tom banged it under one side of the plate, then used it to pry the heavy metal slab away from the ground until there was a big enough gap for Archie to slip his fingers into. Archie hauled the plate upright until it was standing on edge, then pushed it away, sending it toppling to the floor with a crash. As the cloud of dust cleared, a thick, fetid stench rose slowly from the dark hole.

Dropping

to

their

hands

and

knees,

they

crawled

to

the

220 james twining

hole’s edge and peered into it, their hands covering their mouths in an unsuccessful attempt to filter out the smell. A dark, impenetrable nothingness stared back at them, and for a few moments they were all silent.

“I’ll go down first,” Tom volunteered. He grabbed a rope and secured one end to the gate, then threw the other end down the hole. Gripping his flashlight between his teeth, he lowered himself into the inky void, allowing the rope to slide slowly through his hands, controlling the speed of his descent with his legs.

The floor appeared to be made from some sort of white stone, although he could also make out a dark disc at its center, directly beneath where he was coming down. It was only when his feet unexpectedly landed on the disc that he realized it was, in fact, a large table. He let go of the rope and took the light from his mouth.

The table was made of wood and was surrounded by twelve high-backed oak chairs, each adorned with a tarnished silver plaque engraved with a different coat of arms and a family name. But Tom’s eye was drawn less to the chairs than their motionless, grinning occupants.

For assembled around the table, like macabre guests at some apocalyptic dinner party, were twelve gleaming skeletons in full SS dress uniform.

Hardly daring to breathe, he let his flashlight beam play across chests gleaming with medals and ribbons, down to the lower left arm where he found their embroidered cuffbands. The gold lettering glowed against the black material, revealing their owners’ regimental title:

Totenkopfsorden.

The

Order

of

the

Death’s

Head.

HOTEL DREI KÖNIGE, ZURICH

January 9—2:51 a.m.

There you go.” Lasche pointed to the typewriter-sized wooden box on his desk. “I’ve only sold one Enigma before. A few years ago now. He was a Russian collector, if I remember rightly.”

“And the other components?” The voice was soft and lilting, hinting at lazy, humid evenings on a porch somewhere in South Carolina or Louisiana.

“Already in the machine. Of course, the final settings are up to you, Mr. . . . I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.” The beneficial effects of the blood transfusion were already beginning to wear off, and Lasche was feeling tired and a little more unfocused than he would have liked for this meeting. It was unavoidable, given the hour. He’d had little warning, merely a phone call informing him that someone would be coming to make the exchange and to ensure that he was alone.

“Foster. Kyle Foster.” He was a large, rugged-looking man, his thick beard melting into wild, unkempt light brown hair, his steel gray eyes still and watchful. A dangerous man, thought Lasche. “Any problems getting hold of this?”