“If I track down Raeder and find out what he’s up to.”
Hale nodded and stubbed out his cigarette on a side table. There was no ashtray; Hood didn’t smoke. “Exactly. Find him, learn what he’s after, and get it first for Uncle Sam. You get an excuse to get out of this mausoleum and serve your country.”
“At Uncle Sam’s expense?”
“Actually, we need you to help out with that, given your personal resources and presumed patriotism. America’s wallet is tight. You’ve heard of the Great Depression?”
“Why, I think that’s the thing that cost my family millions. You want me to spy for you and pay my own way?”
“I’ve looked at your tax return, Hood. You can afford it. If Vanity Fair was still on the newsstand, you’d be on the cover.”
The magazine had suspended publication in the depth of the downturn, but Hood got the point. His London coat and tie cost several times that of Hale’s suit, his shoes were Italian, and the dark hair and strong chin gave him, women said, the dash of a matinee idol. He enjoyed looking good. He enjoyed spending money on travel and research. He enjoyed sleeping on the ground while knowing he didn’t have to.
“You’ve got nerve, Mr. Hale.”
“I just got a hunch that you’ll jump at a chance to go back to Tibet. Because it’s there, and all that mountaineering crap.”
Hood was annoyed this obnoxious bureaucrat knew anything about him, but such was the modern world. Privacy eroded, the income tax a plague, gangsters glorified. “What if Raeder’s purpose is innocent? Scientific and cultural?”
“Put it in your report. But if it isn’t…”
“What?”
“Then hunt him down. It’s imperative that Germany not win any advantage over there. Kill him, if necessary.”
“Kill him!”
Hale stood and brushed ashes from his lap. “We understand that might not be as difficult for you as it sounds.”
8
On board the Trieste, Mediterranean Sea
June 25, 1938
M ore than two months before Hood’s meeting with Hale, the Italian liner Trieste had cut across a Mediterranean placid as a pond, an avenue of silver leading away from the starboard side to a fat full moon. The air was as warm as a mother’s breath. Now that they were safely away from land, Raeder had invited the men whom Himmler had recruited to share some schnapps by the anchor capstans. The German quintet was deliberately out of earshot of the other passengers, or any chance a steward might overhear.
The ship was steaming for Suez, and then beyond to the Red Sea, Indian Ocean, and Calcutta. British India, unfortunately, was the quickest doorway to the forbidden palaces of Tibet. They’d have to bluff and bargain their way through it.
Raeder’s “knights” were professionals like himself, SS officers who were newly named members of Himmler’s Ahnenerbe, the Reichsfuhre r’s research bureau. They were veterans of expeditions like this one, and experienced mountaineers. While they had packed their black uniforms away until ceremony demanded in Lhasa, they were soldiers, too. The expedition’s crates in the hold included rifles, pistols, and even a new submachine gun called the Erma MP-38, much smaller and lighter than the Thompsons that gangsters used in American movies. There were daggers, explosives, fuses, detonators, and telescopic sights. There were pitons, climbing ropes, and crampons. There were field stoves, scientific instruments, and film cameras. The Germans were ready for partnership, or for war.
Julius Muller was their geophysicist, whose job was measuring magnetic variations in the earth. The work might be scientifically useful in understanding the earth’s interior because it would be the first time such readings would be taken on the world’s highest plateau. Muller had also used explosives in his research and could be counted on to use his expertise in demolition. The Rhinelander had a skeptic’s instincts, however-he was the kind who reflexively questions authority-so his SS superiors had been happy to let him go. Raeder was determined to keep an eye on the maverick. When the time came, Muller must exhibit complete fealty and obedience.
Wilhelm Kranz was their anthropologist. One way to tell Aryan from Jew was to measure face and head, giving authorities an objective way of segregating the races. Kranz planned to use his calipers and plastic casts on the Tibetan aristocracy to establish whether they were indeed ancestral cousins of the German race. Kranz was Nazi by creed and need, a devoted reader of race theory. “Maybe I will find an Aryan princess to seduce, eh?” he added with his sense of humor. He was also an expert with the garrote and knife.
Hans Diels was their archaeologist and historian, the man who’d absorbed what was known about the past of Tibet and who could be called upon to interpret the remains of any lost civilizations they might find. He had a crate of books from Tibetan explorers like Sven Hedin, Nicholas Roerich, and Alexandra David-Neel. Diels had served in the Great War and knew what it was like to fight and kill. “It’s not like the movies. It’s murder. You try to murder them before they can murder you. Pow, from two hundred yards away. And if the artillery can do it for you, so much the better.” He’d been gassed, like Hitler, and at forty-three he was the Old Man of the group.
Franz Eckells was their cameraman. He’d worked with the celebrated woman director Leni Riefenstahl and photographed for the SS magazine Germanische Leithefte. He was the expedition’s political officer, present to ensure there was no deviation from SS orthodoxy. His superb eyesight had helped win awards for marksmanship. In the Winter Olympics in Bavaria two years before, Eckells had narrowly missed winning a medal in Military Patrol, a skiing and shooting event. He carried himself with catlike grace and confidence, and Raeder looked forward to shooting against him.
The zoologist liked his comrades’ combination of brains and brawn, curiosity and courage. They were prototypes of the new Germany. The men had signed on for adventure without being exactly certain where they were going or what they were to risk, trusting Himmler. Now Raeder would tell them. The Germans were all a little drunk, and mellow because of it. It was a perfect night, the air silken, music playing from the salon, the ship throbbing purposely. Their wake ran back toward the Fatherland.
So far the expedition was like a holiday.
Raeder had taken a whore in Genoa to feed his cravings, and by the time she could report his savagery they were far at sea. He felt satiated and anticipatory.
“Gentlemen,” he began, raising his glass, “we are carrying the swastika to Lhasa, the capital of Tibet.”
They nodded, having guessed as much.
“The British may try to impede us, but we’ll not be deterred. There’s ample reason to believe that the goals of the Tibetan government should coincide with our own.”
“Which goals?” Diels asked.
“I’ll get to that. While none of what I’m about to relate is secret, nonetheless Germany is alone in acting on it. Accordingly, what you’re about to hear is for your ears only. It must not be repeated to anyone on this ship or anyone we meet until we are deep in Tibet. Our success depends on our ability to surprise the world. If we succeed, all of you will be heroes to a greater extent than you can possibly imagine.”
“Is it dangerous?” asked Kranz. The possibility did not necessarily displease him.
“Our goal is not to provoke danger, Wilhelm. But, yes, enjoy this leisurely night. Be prepared for hard times once we reach the Himalayas.”
They nodded again.
Raeder took a breath. “As you know, except for the polar regions, central Asia is the most remote and mysterious place on earth. It’s also one of the most strategic, the birthplace of empires for the Mongols, Tatars, and Turks. It’s the high ground between Soviets, Chinese, and the British Raj. It has the highest mountains, the driest deserts, and is the source of great rivers like the Indus, Mekong, Yellow, and Ganges. Its inhabitants are
