“The work of centuries.”
“Perhaps the work can be accelerated.” Himmler’s expression was opaque.
Raeder decided not to know too much. “But what has this to do with Tibet?”
“Our ancient ancestors wandered widely. The high Tibetans have some of our noble bone structure, and there are theories that they are direct descendants-our natural cousins, if you will. Yet how to establish this? They forbid visits to their capital. The selfish British have a small mission, forced on Tibet by invasion in 1904, but otherwise that country is the most secret place in the world. It’s a theocracy, ruled by a god-king lama and his temporary regent, with authority more absolute than any pope. There men live for their next life, not this one. And yet not all men, perhaps. There are legends of earlier Aryans who discovered powers since entirely forgotten- powers that could decide the fate of the world in any coming war.”
“Powers in Tibet? Its wilderness seemed a backward place, Reichsfuhrer. They hardly use the wheel. Only the monks are literate.”
Himmler stood and restlessly moved to the fireplace. It was old, carved with Christian allegories, including one that looked like Cain smiting Abel.
“Powers that could make us gods in our own time. Herr Raeder, have you ever heard of Vril?”
“No, Reichsfuhrer.”
“I’m going to tell you a secret story. And then you’re going to tell your men.”
“My men?”
“I’m sending knights-errant with you.” He ran his hand over the carvings on the mantel. “You know of Frederick Barbarossa, unifier of Germany, Holy Roman Emperor, hero of the Crusades?”
“Every German schoolboy admires Barbarossa and his wife, Beatrix.”
“He was charismatic, brave, visionary, and scholarly. A tragedy that he drowned during the Third Crusade when he was at the height of his powers. His army crumbled at his death, in 1190.”
“He was buried in the Middle East, was he not?”
“Someone was buried there. Legends surround Barbarossa. That he sought the legendary kingdom of Prester John somewhere in the East. That he sleeps, undead, in a mountain in Germany and will emerge to restore the Fatherland to its former greatness. Some have even whispered our Fuhrer is his reincarnation. History records that the body of a man of Frederick’s age was found in his armor after being swept away in a river. But what if Barbarossa did not die, but escaped?”
“I don’t understand.”
“What if he set out alone to seek Prester John? And what if the legend of that mythical Christian kingdom was confused and combined with one about the ancient Tibetan kingdom of Shambhala? What if, Raeder, Barbarossa found Tibet?”
“Surely that’s impossible. Tibet is difficult enough to reach today. In the twelfth century, all of Islam barred the way. Deserts, mountains, wild animals, savage tribes…”
“Since our Fuhrer became chancellor of Germany, the Nazi Party has gained access to historical records and artifacts we’ve sought since our beginning. We’ve become students of legend. We’re privy to medieval secrets kept by the Catholic Church. I’ve become a scholar of possibility.”
“You really believe Frederick Barbarossa reached Tibet?”
“I do not believe anything, but one thing I know. In the cathedral of Aachen, ancient seat of German emperors, was stored a curious relic. Church records show it came into the cathedral’s possession some years after Frederick’s death.” Himmler reached inside his tunic and drew out a sealed silver tube about the size of a rifle shell. It hung from a silver chain. “This is reputed to be the blood of Barbarossa, one of the most priceless relics of German history. Hold it, Raeder.”
“I hardly dare, Reichsfuhrer,” he said, taking the vial gingerly. “This is a great honor.” Do religious relics have any foundation in fact? He looked at it. “Sealed since medieval times?”
Himmler was watching him gravely. “Yes.”
“I’d not heard of this blood vial.”
“No, it’s been a closely guarded secret.”
Raeder held it out. “Please take it back before I drop it.”
“On the contrary, Untersturmfuhrer, you’re about to wear it across the most difficult terrain on earth. It’s a very sturdy container, and you’ll wear it on that chain, next to your heart.”
Raeder stared at the vial. “Why?”
“Because the name of that artifact, for more than seven hundred years, has been ‘The Shambhala Key.’ By legend, it is the vital blood needed to open the gates of the secret city of Shambhala. It is the blood of the worthy, to inherit the terrible powers that lie within. And it is that power that would mark the real return of the spirit of Frederick Barbarossa.”
6
North of Seattle, United States
September 4, Present Day
You don’t think I’m Rominy Pickett?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to shock you. But I know you’re not.”
“Then either you’ve kidnapped the wrong woman or you’re even loonier than I thought.”
Jake Barrow looked straight ahead, both hands on the wheel at ten and two, like a driving student, the pickup a careful six mph above the speed limit, just enough not to risk a ticket. He seemed to have a clear idea where he was going. The freeway north of Seattle was an artery, its cars corpuscles, the vessel walls dark evergreens. Broken overcast kept everything the habitual Northwest gray. “Look, I realize I should have broached this subject a little less dramatically,” he said. “Car bombings are not the way I usually meet my sources.”
“I’m not your source, Mister Investigative Reporter, if that’s what you really are. I’m your victim, and you’ve probably committed about eighteen felonies to get me to this point. Do your editors approve your tactics?”
His lips were tight. “My editors advised me to drop the whole thing.”
“Touche.”
“But they’re wrong.”
“The lunatic creed.”
“You’re the biggest story of my life, and I never dreamed it would play out this way. A skinhead wannabe spilled something about a car bomb. I realized I couldn’t just research any longer and had to check you out in person. Then I saw their Explorer across the parking lot near your vehicle and didn’t know what else to do. It was tackle or watch you blow up.” He sounded more embarrassed than triumphant. And less like a serial killer than she’d have expected. Was there a chance, however slight, that this guy wasn’t totally full of bullshit and homicidal intention? If he was behind the bomb, why tackle her?
“But why would anyone-what, skinheads?-want to kill me?”
“Because they’re Nazi knotheads who think you know a lot more than you do.”
“About what?”
“A seventy-year-old secret, a fairy story, about strange powers and a lost city.”
“Jake-if that’s really what your name is-”
“I have a press card…”
“Whoopee. I’m sorry, but you’re not proving your sanity here. I mean, you’re getting goofier by the minute, I can’t open my truck door, your own editors don’t believe you, and we’re almost to Everett.” She held up her cell phone. “Sounds like it’s time for 911.”
“Wait.” His look was pleading. “If the cops come and my editors get wind of this fiasco, I’m probably finished, I know it. No story, I’m trying to give answers I don’t have, and you still don’t know who you really are. I will look like a criminal, or a nut job. But if you give me a day-two days, at most, on your turf-you might get something that will turn your life around, I get the big scoop, and maybe the good guys even win. Maybe. But I need you to give me a chance to explain without holding that cell phone like it’s another bomb. And I’m serious, the skinheads can track us with that thing.”
