The Fellowship (34 page)

“Even if
this fantastic tale is true,” Fleischer politely objected, “the bones would not be in good condition today.”

“
As you will read, the remains were said to be carefully wrapped in clean burial shrouds, especially in regards to the skull. As our anthropologists have witnessed in Egyptian tombs, bone integrity can be very wildly in relation to storage variables.”

Fleischer
seemed bored, or at the very least, far from convinced of the evidence’s authenticity. Wolf envied his skepticism. He wanted to believe that this was all a fairy tale, as Fleischer seemed to. But his heart could not let it go.

*

The sound of shuffling papers filled the room as the team eagerly devoured the intelligence brief.
Dr. Hahn munched from another helping of cooling sausage, Ritter chewed his nails anxiously, and Fleischer continued to chain smoke.

Nagel
checked his watch. “We must stay on schedule,” he urged Dr. Seiler. “Please push on.”

“As you
will read,” Seiler continued, “It seems that by the second century, the secret location of the ossuary – which had been buried in what is now the grotto underneath St. Peter’s Basilica – was passed from one pope to another through a single apostolic messenger. The secret was apparently well-kept for nearly 1,800 years until the Napoleon invasion of Italy. Pope Pius VI was taken prisoner and, in the weeks after his removal to the Citadel of Valence, he grew ill. At some point in the weeks before he died, Napoleon learned of the ossuary, perhaps from the pontiff himself. And so he secretly moved the bones, along with much of the Vatican archives, to France.”

Ritter
sat up, in rapt attention. “Where, specifically?”

“As some of you may be aware,
the relic of a saint was placed underneath an altar stone of every Roman Catholic church. These relics come in various degrees of importance, ranging from a tooth to a bone or a keepsake to an entire skeleton. Having come into possession of the ossuary of Jesus Christ, Napoleon could think of no better place with which to hide it than beneath the altar of Notre Dame Cathedral.”

For the first time, Wolf observed the look of utter surprise on
Nagel’s face. “And this was the reason for the Paris operation?”

“Correct.
It is Himmler’s opinion, and mine, that the fierceness of the ambush on our anthropological team in defense of the ossuary only confirms its authenticity.”

“And who was it that a
mbushed us? French Resistance?”

Dr.
Seiler shook his head. “The assailants were a group known as the Black Order. They have ruthlessly protected both the ossuary and the pope for hundreds of years.”

“I was under the impression that we had the
pope under our control,” Nagel said.

“
The Black Order appears to be beyond the pontiff’s reach. The Holy See seems to have even less knowledge of their operations than we do.”

Nagel
turned his gaze to Fleischer, whose aura of smug negativity seemed to be eroding. “What do you say now, Bruno?”

“I
must admit that the historical significance of this ossuary is interesting. The war strategy is far-flung, but ingenious. I’m still not clear on how this proves anything in regards to ethnicity.”

Seiler
looked up at Fleischer. “You have no doubt examined thousands of living and dead skulls with conclusive results, have you not?”

Wolf remembered
a photograph his father had taken of Fleischer in Tibet, which had eventually been published in the Ahnenerbe journal. He was using his skull calipers on natives and recording the measurements in a moleskin notebook.

“I have indeed,”
Fleischer confirmed.

“And
through this work, you have discovered patterns in cranial structure that indicate Germanic ancestry.”

“I have,”
Fleischer agreed as he imagined his calipers measuring the nearly 2,000-year-old cranium of Jesus Christ. 

“Himmler believes
,” Seiler said, “That this evidence, taken together with our other research, would be all that would be needed to persuade the führer of its authenticity.”

“And what if
the bones are not in good condition?” Ritter asked. “What if they have crumbled?”

Dr.
Hahn cleared his throat. “I spoke earlier about apparent breakthroughs in blood identification. I am told that our scientists in Switzerland are making equally exciting progress in the study of DNA. One emerging theory is that genetic identification may be achieved through bacteria that have remained intact within bone marrow.”

“And b
arring that,” Seiler continued, “it’s possible that symbols on the ossuary itself might offer compelling evidence. The presence of runes, perhaps.”

“Where is the ossuary now?”
Fleischer queried.

Nagel
stood and went to the map. “Our spies tell us that the relic has been taken to Italy,” he said, his fingers tracing a rail line stretching between the Austrian and Italian Alps. “The Black Order intends to return the ossuary to its original resting place in the vast grottos beneath St. Peter’s Basilica. But as they are well aware, the perimeter we have set up around Vatican City will make that difficult. Therefore the decision was made to place the ossuary in one of two temporary locations until the end of the war.”

Dr.
Seiler stood. “Any final questions?”

Fleischer
finished the last of his whiskey-spiked-coffee. “Just one. Who’s going after it?”

“You,”
Nagel responded.

The unflappable
Fleischer looked fearful for the first time. “You must be joking. I’m an anthropologist.”

“And an excellent marksman,”
Nagel countered. “We have no other options. The situation in Stalingrad is grim, gentlemen. All available reserve officers with combat experience have been deployed to the eastern front to stop the inevitable Russian advance. Your orders are simple: Bring the ossuary to Wewelsburg Castle by any means necessary. The outcome of the war depends on it.”

*

The double doors opened once more.
Nagel’s aide reappeared in the doorway. “Sir, the reichs
führer
requests your presence in the crypt.”

“Very well,”
Nagel nodded. He took a flashlight as big as a police baton from the table and turned to the group. “Follow me.”

Wolf, Lang
, Ritter, Fleischer and Dr. Seiler followed Nagel out of the hall, into the corridor and to the southeast wing of the castle. There they descended a winding stone staircase until they found themselves in a vast wine cellar. At approximately 56 degrees Fahrenheit, it was substantially warmer than the castle’s upper floors.

The aroma of
mustiness, oak and fermenting wine was immediate and overpowering. The unit proceeded through row after row of barrels stacked nearly to the ceiling. Nagel seemed intent on reaching some predetermined destination, and yet there seemed to be no obvious path through the cavernous space. It was as if the barrels had been deliberately arranged in a sort of maze that twisted illogically through the room. Nevertheless, Nagel pressed on, following a path that he clearly knew by heart.

Fleischer
dropped back until he was walking alongside Wolf. “I knew your father,” Fleischer offered.

Wolf glanced up at
Fleischer as they navigated the path through the room. He did not want to give the smug anthropologist the satisfaction of knowing that a photograph of him still hung in his father’s empty study in Munich. “You worked together?” Wolf asked.

“Tibet,”
Fleischer nodded. “Your father was a good researcher. We all caught strange illnesses over there. I nearly died myself.”

“
Was it worth it?” Wolf pushed, earning a sideways glance from the older man. “I don’t mean to be rude,” Wolf explained. “I just want to know.”

Fleischer
shook his head. “I suppose not. There was no Aryan connection in Tibet. Just a lot of good hunting.”

At last
they came to a chain link gate fitted with a sign that read ATTENTION! DANGER! SALT MINE ENTRANCE!

Nagel
unclipped a ring of keys from his belt, plucked a long jagged one from it, and unlocked the gate. Once the others had passed through, he shut the gate behind them, rattling it to ensure it was properly locked.

H
e switched on his flashlight and led them down a lightless hallway. Wolf’s heart began beating hard in his chest. He began counting his steps in case he had to find his way back in the dark.

“Halt!” a voice shouted from
farther down the second corridor. Wolf was temporarily blinded as a spotlight that seemed as bright as the sun itself swept across the group.

“
Obergruppenf
ührer
Nagel,” one of the voices said. “You may proceed.”

The spotlight flashed off. Wolf, his eyes still blinded by spots, forced his feet forward, using the sound of
Nagel’s boots against the concrete as a guide. They turned a corner, where he saw a lift entrance with a guard sentry on either side. One of the guards presented Nagel with a clipboard. The castle commandant scrawled his name and date on the visitor form, and then passed it to each of the men in the group.

At last they boarded the lift,
where the lighting was much easier on the eyes. The lift platform was roughly the size of a car, easily the largest Wolf had ever seen. As they began their descent, Wolf peered at the cut earth through the chicken wire surrounding the lift.

“
The shaft is 800 meters deep,” Nagel noted.

Wolf’s mouth instinctively yawned open as
a plugging sensation overtook his eardrums. Soon he could hear, over the whirring of the lift cables, the sound of metal on stone. A steady chipping that was rhythmic, if not perfectly syncopated.

“How many prison
ers died digging this hole?” Fleischer asked.

“
Not so many,” Nagel replied. “Perhaps two thousand.”  

At last the
walls flickered with shadows. The lift slowed and bounced gently at the shaft’s bottom, sending Dr. Seiler wobbling against Lang for balance. The group stepped onto a floor of freshly poured concrete.

The room was
lit with tunneling lights and filled with stone carvers in jumpers that were caked with white dust. The finished walls were carved with scenes from ancient Nordic myths. Against the far wall, a pair of enormous stone lions flanked the entrance into a second room. The sight reminded Wolf of photographs he had seen of the ancient tomb of the Egyptian king Tutankhamen.

Nagel
led the men through the antechamber, between the lions, through the portal – which was easily 10 meters tall – and into a torch-lit crypt that was elaborately decorated with dozens of German noble flags. Hung high above was the Lucas Cranach painting of the Last Supper that Wolf had seen previously in Himmler’s private museum. A lit cauldron burned in the center of the room, smoke drawing up through a ventilator that had been bored into the ceiling.

Heinrich Himmler stood in a corner
, surrounded by three personal bodyguards. His shadow danced in the torchlight behind him, larger than life against the enormous rune-etched walls. He did not speak, but rather pointed to the eastern wall. Hahn, Ritter and Seiler led the way, followed by Wolf and Lang.

Cut out of the wall were five
extravagantly decorated marble crypts. Wolf sensed an inner darkness grip him as he, along with the others, approached the first crypt. Despite an overwhelming sense of dread, curiosity propelled him forward until he was close enough to make out the engraving on the marker:

HEINRICH I - HENRY THE FOWLER

KING OF GERMANY

876– 936 AD

This defied all reason. It was common knowledge that the king had been buried at Quedlinburg Abbey for a millennium. Had Himmler actually disinterred the body from its ancient resting place to move it here? He quickly moved to the second crypt, where a large portrait of Frederick II hung. The nameplate read:

Frederick the Great

King of Prussia

Prince-Elector of the Holy Roman Empire

1712 – 1786 AD

He struggled to make sense of this spectacle. This crime. Had these bodies been moved
for their own protection? Was a Russian invasion really so certain?  Or was this just another manifestation of Himmler’s sorcery?

The
third sarcophagus was lavishly covered in medals and decorations from the Great War. A portrait of Paul von Hindenburg was suspended overhead, along with a bevy of rifles and swords.

FIELD MARSHAL PAUL VON HINDENBURG

PRESIDENT OF GERMANY

1847-1934 AD