It was, Will noticed, a rather thin file. A single photograph clipped to the top page depicted a grainy black- and-white head shot of a man showing the first hints of baldness. He wore round wire-rimmed spectacles and a thin mustache. The graininess made Will think the image had been enlarged from a portion of a larger photo.
“Born in Weimar, Germany, April 13, 1872. Only child to Gottfried and Marlissa von Westarp. Wealthy family, owned quite a bit of land. Father died in 1899; mother died in 1915. He was apparently self-taught in his youth, and attended the University of Heidelberg starting in his mid-twenties, from 1896 through 1902. Quite the scholar. Studied philosophy, chemistry, physiology, and history. Wrote a well-received treatise on Nietzsche. Didn't obtain his letters in history, however. He may have had a falling out with the faculty.
“After Heidelberg, von Westarp came to Britain to study medicine at King's College, London. Stayed there until 1908 before returning to Germany.”
Marsh sat up. “He was here.”
Will said, “Thirty years ago, Pip.”
“This,” said Stephenson, tapping the photograph, “is our only image of the man. Class photo from King's, taken on the day their medical degrees were conferred.
“After that, our man disappears for the next ten years. We've been unable to turn up any sign of him prior to autumn of 1918, when he popped up again in Munich. Where he became one of the founding members of the Thule-Gesellschaft.”
Marsh whistled. “I'll be damned.”
Will shook his head, knowing he'd just missed something important. He looked back and forth between Stephenson and Marsh. “I'm a bit lost here, gents.”
“Thule Society. Bunch of Teutonic occultists,” said Marsh. “And anti-Communists, and anti-Semites.”
Upon hearing this explanation, Lorimer took on a more contemplative demeanor. His eyebrows pulled together in a small frown. Will remembered that Lorimer was the only person in the room who had so far seen the reconstructed Tarragona filmstrip.
“But von Westarp didn't stay with the Thulies very long. Had a falling out with them, too, within a year.”
“Do we know what caused this rift?”
“No. All we know for certain is that by 1920 he had returned to Weimar, and converted his family estate to a foundling home.”
“A
Stephenson read from a card in the folder. “Yes. The Children's Home for Human Enlightenment.”
Marsh cracked his knuckles, thinking. Almost to himself, he said, “'His children. Von Westarp's children.' Krasnopolsky mentioned them.”
A wave of unease came over Will, closely followed by the memory of a long-disregarded myth. “Why the sudden interest in children? What prompted this?”
Stephenson shrugged. “Unknown. But our assets in the area have uncovered announcements in the local papers dating from around that time. Warnings of an outbreak of Spanish flu at an orphanage just outside of Weimar, warning people to stay away.”
“Is that true?” Will asked as he studied the doctor's photograph. Perhaps it was an artifact of the grainy reproduction, but the man seemed to regard the camera with a cold, almost clinical expression. Even on what should have been a joyful occasion. “Was there such an outbreak?”
“Impossible to say. Von Westarp ran the orphanage as a private enterprise, funded with his own money. There are no public records. No death certificates.”
“So he was taking in kids,” said Lorimer, “but at the same time he didn't want outside visitors.”
Marsh added, “And he ran the whole thing on a country estate, family land. Plenty of room for hiding things.”
Lorimer voiced the key question. “What was he doing?”
“Isolating them,” Will murmured, almost to himself. “Seeking the ur-language.” The others glanced at him, expecting elaboration. Stephenson appeared particularly keen to know Will's thoughts. But Will was preoccupied with legends and myths, hoary old tales of the first warlocks.
“What ever it was, the orphanage ran quietly for most of a decade. Until '29, when Himmler gifted von Westarp with the rank of SS Oberfuhrer.” Stephenson closed the file. “Here ends the lesson. Now let's see what Krasnopolsky died to bring us.”
Lorimer stood. He turned off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness before the clattering projector tossed a bright white square on the screen and the wall behind it. Lorimer nudged the projector, centering it.
The film began with the Crown seal, and this notice:
MILKWEED / GRACKLE
MOST SECRET
UNAUTHORISED DISSEMINATION OF THE INFORMATION CONTAINED IN
THIS FILM CONSTITUTES TREASON AGAINST THE UNITED KINGDOM OF
GREAT BRITAIN AND NORTHERN IRELAND AS DEFINED BY PARLIAMENT
IN THE OFFICIAL SECRETS ACT OF 1920. PUNISHMENT UP TO AND
INCLUDING EXECUTION MAY RESULT.
MILKWEED / GRACKLE
The room strobed dark and light so quickly that Will's eyes ached in the effort to keep up. A parade of images flashed on the screen, sandwiched in moments of darkness. The dark frames were placeholders, he realized, representing the portions of film damaged by fire. After the reel spooled past the outermost layers where fire had done the most damage, the dark stretches grew shorter. But not enough to make viewing easy or comfortable.
Will struggled to absorb the surreal tableaux. A shirtless man hovering twenty feet above an orchard. Half a second of nothing but a brick wall, then a nude woman standing before it with no transition. A young man with pale eyes laying his hand on an anvil, the film shimmering, the metal sagging. Another man standing halfway inside a wall, like a ghost. A muscular fellow on a leash (a
The subjects of the film wore belts with dark leads running up to their skulls. Each and every one of them. Repeated viewings didn't make it any less horrifying.
They watched the film again. And again. And again.
Will was so wrapped up trying to assemble the images into a single story—trying to conceive of how von Westarp had achieved these unnatural results—that it wasn't until the third viewing he noticed an obvious problem.
“There's no sound,” he said, breaking the silence.
“Of course there's no bleedin' sound,” said Lorimer. “It's a silent fucking filmstrip.”
“That's a shame,” said Will. When Marsh asked him why, he elaborated. “If we could
“So you do think this is supernatural?”
“Are you not watching the same film as I, Pip? Because I believe I just witnessed a flying man. A
Stephenson said, “What are those things they wear? The belts, and the implants.”
Will shook his head. “Honestly, I haven't the faintest idea. This is a form of the craft utterly unknown to me. But I'd like to know how it works.” It looked like magic without blood. Was that even possible?
Marsh looked at Stephenson, then back to Will. “You'll do it, then? You'll help us?”
“I am at your service,” said Will.
“Welcome to Milkweed,” said Stephenson.
four
