Kingdom of Darkness

by Andy McDermott

  ‘I’ll take your word for it, sir,’ said Rasche. ‘I never studied Greek.’

  ‘You should always study the past, Obersturmführer,’ Kroll replied, reading on with growing intrigue. ‘It can teach you a lot. Especially when it concerns Alexander the Great. He was born near here, near Pella – it was the capital of Macedonia.’ He stepped back, almost reflective. ‘Alexander was my childhood hero, actually; he was the greatest military leader in history, never defeated in battle. He’d conquered most of the known world before he was thirty years old. If he’d lived longer, who knows what else he could have accomplished?’

  ‘Sir,’ Rasche replied, with clear disinterest. He moved to prod at a pile of coins.

  ‘Philistine,’ Kroll muttered as he read more text. It was referring to Alexander the Great, he was sure. ‘These dates, they’re long after Alexander died. But this Andreas, the inscriptions say he knew Alexander personally . . .’

  He regarded the statue. The man it portrayed was old, bald-headed with a long beard, yet still had the upright posture of youth. The remaining scuffs of paint on its face were enough to give the impression that it was looking back at him, expression almost challenging. ‘Andreas, Andreas . . .’ he whispered, searching his memory. The name was connected to Alexander’s somehow, but the link was elusive—

  Suddenly it came to him.

  The rational part of his mind instantly dismissed the thought as ridiculous. It couldn’t possibly be true! But . . .

  His gaze fell upon something behind the statue. It was a pithos, an earthenware jar as tall as a man and a metre across at its broadest. More Greek text was inscribed upon it. He went to the vessel to read some of it, then stood on tiptoes to examine the wide spout. It had been sealed, black pitch around a silver stopper. The rim was silvered too, as if the jar’s interior was lined with the precious metal.

  ‘Silver,’ he said out loud. However ludicrous it sounded, the connection between Andreas and the Macedonian conqueror had now solidified in his thoughts.

  ‘And gold,’ said Rasche, coins clinking from his fingers.

  ‘Forget the gold – we may have found something even more valuable.’ Kroll turned, ignoring his subordinate’s look of confusion. ‘The old man and his family. Bring them down here!’

  Rasche shouted an order up the stairs. The surviving members of the Patras clan were quickly hustled into the hidden chamber, their dismay at their secret having been revealed mirrored by the amazement and raw greed on the faces of the Nazis. ‘Andreas,’ Kroll said to the patriarch in Greek, indicating the statue. ‘He is who I think, isn’t he? Andreas the cook, from the Alexander Romance?’

  The defeat and resignation in the old man’s voice told Kroll that he was right. ‘Yes, it is he.’

  The commander’s pointing finger shifted to the pithos. ‘Then the jar – it really contains what Andreas found in the Kingdom of Darkness?’

  Patras’s son gave his father a look of alarm. ‘How could he know?’ he hissed. Rasche raised his dagger to the man’s throat to warn him to be silent.

  Kroll’s sneer turned upon the prisoner. ‘You think we Germans are all uneducated thugs? You need to remember that Greece is no longer the centre of civilisation. Yes, I know about Andreas, and what he discovered. But I thought it was only a legend, another of the Romance’s chapters of fantasy.’

  ‘Andreas wrote the Alexander Romance,’ Patras replied, a certain pride entering his tone despite his fear. ‘He hid the truth inside the fantasy.’ A flick of one hand towards an unimpressive wood and metal chest. ‘A copy of his original is in there.’

  The urge to open the chest and read the ancient text rose in the Nazi leader, but he restrained it. There were more important answers he needed first. ‘Why did he hide the truth?’

  ‘So that only someone who believed they were a worthy successor to Alexander could find it.’

  Rasche’s impatience at being shut out of the Greek exchange reached bursting point. ‘Sir, what are you both talking about? We’ve found their treasure – what else do we need from them?’

  ‘Information,’ Kroll told him. ‘That’s how wars are won, not with tanks or bullets. I told you, you should learn from history.’ He returned to the pithos, signalling for Jaekel to join him. ‘Open the jar.’

  ‘Sir!’ Jaekel snapped in reply. He raised his gun, flipping it around ready to smash the stock against the pithos’s spout—

  Kroll’s yell of ‘No!’ and the horrified cry of ‘Óchi!’ from Patras were simultaneous. ‘Idiot!’ the Nazi growled. ‘Use your knife, not your gun! Take out the stopper.’

  The chastened stormtrooper slung his weapon and unsheathed his combat knife. Kroll watched as he worked the plug loose, then turned his attention back to the Greeks. The adults all seemed appalled at the prospect of the great jar’s opening – or was it apprehension? He looked back at the text upon the pithos. More mentions of Alexander, but from the perspective of history. Andreas may have known the great king, but these words had been written long after his death.

  Which meant that if Andreas himself had been the author of the Romance, the pithos really might contain the stuff of legends . . .

  A crackle as Jaekel worked loose a chunk of pitch. He tossed it aside, then jemmied away at the stopper itself. More of the black resin crumbled. A sharp rasp of metal – and the cap moved.

  ‘Careful, now,’ Kroll warned, but Jaekel had learned his lesson. He used the knife to lever the stopper upwards. It was indeed solid silver, but the Nazi leader was now less interested in the metal’s value than in what the pithos contained. Waving Jaekel aside, he hopped up on to the statue’s plinth to look down into the container.

  Water shimmered gently in the torchlight. The jar was almost full to brimming, holding hundreds of litres, maybe more. He leaned closer, briefly moving the torch away as he adjusted his balance.

  The shimmering remained, even without light.

  For a moment he thought it was just an after-image. But the same thing happened when he lowered the torch again to check. ‘Jaekel, point your light at the floor,’ he ordered. ‘Rasche, Gausmann, you too.’

  The SS troopers obeyed. The chamber became almost fully dark as Kroll flicked off his own light. He looked back at the jar.

  The water in the pithos was aglow, sparkling, but not with bubbles: with light.

  It was faint, like moonlight reflected from a pond on a misty night, but definitely visible. ‘What is it, Sturmbannführer?’ asked Rasche.

  ‘Wait,’ said Kroll. He flicked his torch back on and cautiously dipped his little finger into the water.

  The resulting sensation made him twitch. ‘Sturmbannführer!’ Rasche said again, with concern. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Kroll replied, slipping his finger back into the pithos. This time, he was prepared, and did not flinch. His skin tingled, very slightly. The effect was not unlike a mild electric charge.

  He withdrew his hand, thinking for a moment. Then he scooped up some energised water in his palm and raised it towards his mouth—

  ‘That is not for you,’ said Patras. Kroll looked sharply at him. Even surrounded by SS troopers, his family at gunpoint, the old man’s attitude was defiant.

  ‘Who are you to decide?’ Kroll demanded in Greek.

  ‘We are the descendants of Andreas – once a humble cook, and later the guardian of the Spring of Immortality. We have protected his shrine for almost two thousand years, and kept his secret from those who think themselves better than the great king. Is that what you believe, German? That you are a worthy successor to Alexander?’

  Kroll bristled at the challenge. ‘The Third Reich will become the greatest empire the world has ever seen, yes.’

  ‘But you are not its leader.’

  ‘I act in the name of its leader, Adolf Hitler. Therefore I a
m worthy, since Hitler is the greatest leader in all of history.’ Kroll allowed himself a smug smile, pleased with his own irrefutable logic.

  Patras was unimpressed. ‘You may believe what you wish to believe. But the water is not for you. Andreas first thought to keep it for himself rather than share it with Alexander, and though he soon regretted that decision, by then it was too late.’

  ‘Then the water is the same as in the Romance, yes?’

  The old man nodded. ‘It is.’

  Kroll felt almost breathless with excitement. He had been right: the gold and silver treasures were nothing compared to the value of the water. ‘And . . . you know how to find its source?’

  A firm shake of the head. ‘No. This is a shrine to the memory and works of Andreas, marking his birthplace – but it is not his tomb. He is buried at the spring.’ Another shift in Patras’s attitude; now he seemed almost condescending, a schoolmaster looking down upon his pupils. ‘The path to the spring is hidden, but it begins here. If you truly think you are superior to Alexander, then perhaps you deserve to find it.’

  ‘Of course I deserve it,’ Kroll snapped. With that, he brought up his hand and sipped the water. The faint tingling was stronger upon his tongue. He gulped down the rest. For a moment he felt nothing. Then . . .

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Rasche again, shining his torch into his commanding officer’s face.

  Kroll blinked in annoyance. ‘Get that damn light off me. Yes, I’m fine. I’m . . .’ He paused as an odd feeling rose through him – almost elation, the tingle swirling through his veins to every part of his body.

  ‘The water – it could be stagnant. Or even poisoned.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Kroll repeated. The sensation passed, but somehow he knew that something good – something remarkable – had just happened to him. And his knowledge of the Alexander Romance, a Greek recension of which he had read as a student, suggested what it might be.

  He made a decision. ‘Close the jar,’ he ordered Jaekel. ‘Put the stopper back in and find something to seal it with. I don’t want to lose a single drop of what’s inside.’

  ‘What is inside, sir?’ asked Schneider, who was holding Patras’s daughter-in-law and granddaughter. Even in the low light, Kroll noticed that he had wound his fingers into the woman’s long dark hair and was slowly stroking the strands.

  ‘Something that will make us very rich. All of us. Now listen. Gausmann, bring down the other men outside – I want the whole unit to hear this.’

  ‘What about the prisoners in the truck, sir?’ Gausmann asked.

  ‘Execute them. I know you have wanted to since we arrested them; now is your chance.’

  Gausmann was surprised, but pleased, a cold grin crossing his face as he saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’ He hurried up the stairs.

  ‘If I may ask, sir,’ said Rasche, barely hiding his impatience, ‘what is this about?’

  ‘It’s about a long and rewarding life, Rasche,’ Kroll told him. He stepped down from the plinth and waited. Muffled gunshots soon came from above.

  The prisoners flinched, the little girl beginning to cry. Schneider slid his fingers into her hair. ‘Hush now, little one,’ he said, giving her a snake-like smile. She buried her face against her mother’s neck.

  The other troopers clattered into the shrine, gazing at the treasures with awe. ‘Oster, come on,’ said Kroll, waiting for the last straggler to enter. Then he stepped forward to address his men. ‘Attention!’ All those not holding the Patras family snapped upright. ‘I want everyone to listen very closely. You’ve all seen what this room contains. It’s full of treasure . . . and we are going to take it.’ Eyes widened in avaricious delight. ‘But the gold and silver and jewels are not the most valuable things here. The water in that jar,’ he gestured towards it, ‘is worth the most of all. I will explain why this is later, but for now, I need to make it clear that no one must know about this outside our unit. No one. You are either with me, or you leave now.’

  He regarded them silently. He did not expect any departures, and there were none. ‘Good. Here is what we are going to do. We will close up the cellar and secure this house until we can arrange for the treasure to be transported safely – and quietly – out of the country.’

  Rasche gave Patras and his family a sidelong glance. ‘And what about them?’

  Kroll stared hard at the old man – who looked back with equal intensity. ‘You know already. And so do they, I think.’ He switched to Greek. ‘We are going to take everything we have found here.’

  Patras nodded in resignation. ‘What about my family? Please, they have done nothing. My granddaughter – she is only a child. She at least deserves to live.’

  The SS commander regarded the girl, then frowned at Schneider, who reluctantly withdrew his hand from her hair. ‘Very well. You have my word,’ he told Patras, before speaking again in German: ‘Take them outside and dispose of them. All of them – including the child.’

  The troops encircled the prisoners, pushing them to the stairs. Patras spoke to his family, trying to reassure them, but with a leaden fatefulness they quickly understood. All three hugged and kissed the little girl as they were led away.

  Rasche watched them go, then turned to Kroll. ‘Sturmbannführer, I agree that we should take the treasure, but I have to know: what is so important about the water? How can it possibly be more valuable than gold?’

  Kroll smiled thinly. ‘Obersturmführer Rasche, which is more valuable to a person – gold, or their life?’

  Rasche was puzzled by the question. ‘Unless they’re a fool, their life, of course.’

  ‘Of course. Now answer this: how much gold would you give to live for ever?’

  ‘I don’t know – a lot, I suppose . . .’ He trailed off, staring at the pithos before snapping his gaze back to his commander. ‘Wait, you think—’

  ‘I know,’ Kroll interrupted. ‘The moment I drank it, I knew. A long time ago, someone found the secret of immortality.’ His smile broadened. ‘And now it belongs to us.’

  1

  Los Angeles, 2014

  The Lamborghini Aventador roadster tore through the intersection, the bright orange supercar’s tyres screaming. In its wake, two gleaming black Mercedes SLS AMG sports cars skidded around the corner, their V8 engines snarling like enraged beasts.

  The gull-wing passenger door of the lead SLS swung upwards. A man, face hidden behind a bandanna, leaned out. The malevolent little MAC-11 machine pistol in his hand barked, vivid spurts of flame longer than the weapon itself gouting from the barrel as he unleashed a spray of automatic fire at the Lamborghini.

  The Aventador’s driver jerked the steering wheel to the left. The convertible whipped into a lane of oncoming traffic as sparks and dust spat up from the asphalt alongside it. An SUV rushed straight at it—

  The driver swept up on to the sidewalk. Pedestrians screamed and leapt for safety. The Mercs continued their pursuit, the second car’s gull-wing opening to reveal another masked man . . .

  Holding an RPG-7 rocket launcher.

  Danger behind – and ahead. The street was blocked by a tanker truck.

  No way around it . . .

  But there was a way over it.

  A panel van with a lowered rear ramp was parked at the kerb, its interior empty save for some cardboard boxes. The driver swerved back on to the road, aiming his car directly at it—

  ‘And . . . cut!’

  The Aventador came to a rapid stop. Behind it, both AMGs also slowed, wheeling around ready for the next take.

  Nina Wilde, standing beside a camera crane, responded to the action with a dismissive shrug. ‘Y’know, I don’t think they ever got above thirty miles per hour,’ the redhead complained.

  Her husband was rather more impressed. ‘Oh, come on,’ said Eddie Chase, eyeing the Lamb
orghini with distinct automotive lust. ‘You’ve got to admit, being on a movie set is pretty cool.’

  ‘Yeah, when something’s actually happening.’ They had been on the imitation New York street for over an hour, and this was the first time the cameras had rolled.

  Macy Sharif nodded in agreement. ‘Thank God for trailers,’ said the younger woman, indicating a large and luxurious mobile home parked at the end of the back lot. ‘Grant’s is kitted out better than his own apartment. And he’s got a really nice apartment.’

  ‘So you like life in Hollywood, then?’ Eddie asked with a grin. ‘Being a model’s better than being an archaeologist?’ The Englishman glanced sidelong at his wife, the grin becoming more cheeky. ‘Always thought it must be.’ She jabbed him with her elbow in response.

  ‘I still am an archaeologist,’ Macy insisted. ‘I got my degree – yay! – and I’m starting on my master’s soon. But . . . yeah,’ she admitted, smiling, ‘being a model was cool. I’ll show you the magazine later. I think you’ll like it.’

  ‘I’m sure I will,’ said Eddie.

  Nina gave him a teasing look. ‘You’d better not like it too much. You’re wearing clothes in it, aren’t you, Macy?’

  ‘Of course I am!’ she replied.

  Nina looked her friend up and down. The dark-haired young Floridian was in cut-off denim shorts and a midriff-baring T-shirt, both garments tight enough to show off her toned figure. ‘More than you are now?’

  A moment’s consideration. ‘Maybe . . .’

  The Lamborghini pulled up in front of them and its door scissored open. Grant Thorn climbed out and called to a man in a baseball cap. ‘How was that, Mikey?’

  The director was reviewing various camera angles on a bank of monitors. ‘Lookin’ good, lookin’ good . . . yeah, print it.’

  ‘And you can see it’s really me driving?’

  ‘Yeah, Grant, we can tell it’s you.’

  ‘Awesome.’ The tanned actor gave the director a thumbs-up, then embraced Macy, lifting her off her feet and spinning around with a ‘Hey, babe!’ before turning to his guests. ‘So? What d’you think?’