‘You could have what?’ Zane cut in. ‘You just said they killed everyone else, and they had an armed escort. You wouldn’t even have had a gun.’
‘But I could have done something – anything!’
‘You would have died, Eddie.’ The use of his first name caught the Englishman by surprise. ‘They only took the archaeologists with them, and killed the rest. That means they need them for something. There’s still a chance to find them.’
Eddie turned away in frustration. He knew Zane was right, but that didn’t make him feel any less helpless. ‘How, though? They could be fucking anywhere.’
‘I know where.’
He spun sharply back to the Israeli. ‘What?’
‘I just spoke to my people. Remember that IP address I got from Leitz’s computer? They traced it.’
Hope surged in Eddie’s heart. ‘To where?’
‘Argentina.’
‘Argentina’s pretty bloody big. You’d better narrow it down a bit.’
A sigh. ‘We have . . . mostly. But we could only pinpoint it to a small town in the south-west of the country. Everything there goes through a satellite hub, but not even the telecom company knows the physical locations of the computers linked to it. Kroll and his people might be in the town, or just outside it . . . or twenty kilometres away.’
‘But Mossad’ll search now they know roughly where they are, right?’
Zane looked uncomfortable. ‘Yes – but they still have to recall agents from other assignments back to CSU.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘Since we haven’t got absolute confirmation of the Nazis’ location . . . two or three days.’
‘Nina and the others might be dead in two or three days,’ Eddie growled. ‘We should get the UN or Interpol involved.’
‘They’ll take even longer! They won’t act without proof. That’s why I already arranged a flight – for both of us.’ For the second time in minutes, Eddie was surprised by the young agent. ‘We can try to locate Kroll’s base ourselves. If we find it—’
‘We’ll find it. We’re not fucking leaving until we do.’
‘When we find it, the Mossad can take action. Interpol too – if there’s anything left for them.’ He gave Eddie a dark look. ‘We both have personal reasons for taking out these bastards.’
‘Rescuing Nina and the others takes priority, though. Even over revenge.’
Hesitation, then: ‘Agreed,’ said Zane.
‘Okay.’ The Yorkshireman extended his hand; Zane regarded it for a moment, then shook it firmly. ‘So it’s not the Boys from Brazil – it’s the Arseholes from Argentina. Let’s go and wipe ’em out.’
19
Argentina
The first thing Nina heard as she struggled back to wakefulness was the crackle of gunfire.
The sound sent a shock of fear through her system, driving away the fug. She was in a moving vehicle, lying on a dirty metal floor with her hands tied behind her back. Panic rose. Where was she? What had happened—
‘Sie wacht auf,’ said a man behind her.
Nina twisted to see the huge form of Walther sitting on a narrow bench. He stared back with contempt. The rumbling truck had a canvas cover over its cargo bed, grey daylight picking out the truck’s other occupants.
Macy was unconscious on the floor, Banna beside her. Both were bound. Two men sat behind them, sub-machine guns on their laps.
Memory returned. She’d been drugged! The Nazis had hauled the survivors of the desert ambush into their van – and forcibly injected them.
How long had she been unconscious? The light outside suggested it was late afternoon . . . but her gnawing hunger told her that more than a few hours had passed. She pushed herself up to look over the tailgate – and realised she was not in Egypt any more.
They had climbed up a hill from a vast plain, the vegetation more brown than green. A lake was visible several miles away; a small town stood amongst desiccated farmland near it.
There was something else about the scene, something wrong, but she couldn’t pin down what . . . until a shiver gave her the answer. It was cold. Not merely a high-altitude chill, but a deeper frigidity, seeping into her bones. It was winter. In June.
That meant she was in the southern hemisphere, below the tropics. Too cold to be Australia or southern Africa, too dry for New Zealand. Which left . . . South America. Almost certainly Argentina, then; narrow, mountainous Chile was lacking in great grassy plains.
‘Shoulda guessed,’ she mumbled. She didn’t need to be a Mossad agent to know that the country had been a magnet for escaped Nazi war criminals.
‘What was that, Dr Wilde?’ She turned to see Rasche through an opening in the back of the truck’s cab.
‘Argentina,’ she told him. ‘It makes sense that you’d have found yourselves a little rat-hole here. Lots of your buddies hid out in Argentina after the war, didn’t they? Mengele, Eichmann – Juan Perón really laid out the welcome mat for you.’
‘How do you know where we are?’ Walther demanded.
Rasche gave him a sneering smile. ‘Because she is as clever as her reputation told us. I hope for your sake, Dr Wilde, that you will use that mind of yours to give us what we want. And for the sake of your friends,’ he added, glancing at the two sleeping figures.
Another burst of gunfire, closer. Nina squirmed to the bench opposite Walther and with an effort levered herself up to sit upon it. The big German shot her a warning scowl, but did not kick her back down. She peered through the opening.
The truck was crossing a large plateau that gradually rose towards a distant range of snow-capped peaks. Stands of trees dotted the landscape between empty fields. A rusty narrow-gauge railroad track ran parallel to the dirt road, heading for a cluster of buildings at the heart of the upland plain.
The escaped Nazis had not spent the past seven decades hiding in a hole.
It was more than a mere farm; they had constructed an entire colony. Several large houses stood at the centre, with ranks of long, low structures resembling military barracks lined up nearby. There were also barn-like storage structures, garages and workshops, even a water tower.
More shots caught her attention. Off to one side was a military training ground, an obstacle course alongside a target range. A group of young men were firing rifles.
The chill returned, but this time Nina felt more than just the winter cold. The youths all wore black uniforms – and even from a distance she could make out the symbols on their red armbands. Swastikas.
Rasche saw her appalled expression. ‘The New Reich,’ he said with an oily smile of pride as the truck made its way into the compound.
Sidings split off the railroad, an old and rust-streaked steam locomotive on one spur with a small train of covered wooden wagons. A passenger carriage and a caboose waited on another, behind them a string of carts that had once carried some mined mineral. None had been used for some time; as in the wider world, rail had given way to road, several large trucks parked by the workshop buildings. These too were battered and elderly.
They turned at a junction and headed away from the railroad to pull up outside one of the ranch houses. Walther gave a command to the two men, who dropped the tailgate with a bang before picking up Banna and Macy. ‘Move,’ the hulking Nazi told Nina.
She jumped down. As Walther lumbered after her, she looked up at the house. It was distinctly Germanic, white-painted walls divided by black timber cross-beams with a high, steeply sloping roof. The other houses nearby were similar in style, though smaller.
Rasche headed to the front door. Walther pushed Nina ahead of him, her companions being carried behind. The newcomers’ arrival had attracted interest, a group of young men marching along a side path looking on as they passed—
Nina’s eyes
locked on to one of the observers as his gaze snapped to her. Simultaneous recognition – but for her, the feeling was joined by shock. She was looking at a dead man.
It was Volker Koenig, the youth who had sought her out in Los Angeles, only to be gunned down by Maximilian Jaekel.
But that was impossible. This had to be a twin. Did he know what had happened to his brother?
The doppelgänger’s group marched out of sight as she arrived at the house. A man standing in the porch snapped to attention, one arm raised in a ramrod-straight Nazi salute. Rasche returned it somewhat more casually. The guard opened the door for them.
The first thing that hit Nina was the smell: the interior stank, a pervasive miasma of cigarette smoke, coffee grounds and stale sweat soaked into the woodwork. The group went down a long hall. Rasche knocked on an ornate dark oak door. ‘Hereinkommen,’ said a voice. They entered.
Nina froze at the sight waiting for her. The room was a large study, the wooden walls and furniture all carved in an elaborate Gothic style, eagles and other motifs of the Third Reich featuring prominently. But two symbols overpowered all others. The first was a huge Nazi flag hanging on the wall behind a large desk.
The other was above the fireplace, a portrait of one of the most evil men in history.
Adolf Hitler.
Nina stared at the painting, almost refusing to accept that such a thing could still exist. It was the twenty-first century! How could anyone still believe in the hate-filled rantings of this madman?
Her eyes then went to the room’s occupants, and she had her answer.
These men were not neo-Nazis, appropriating the basest elements of Hitler’s twisted philosophy to cover their own fears and failures and inadequacies. Like Rasche and Walther, they had personally been a part of the horrors of Nazism, true believers from the start.
She knew their faces from the mugshots at the United Nations. Herman Schneider, squat and toad-like, little eyes lighting up with a predatory glee at the sight of the two captive women. Bren Gausmann, thin-faced and with a cold, dead stare that told her he would feel no more remorse at killing a human being than he would a fly.
And the leader of the group, behind the desk. Erich Kroll, bald and bloated almost beyond recognition – if not for the malignancy in his gaze. It was a look that had been the last thing countless victims ever saw.
And now it turned upon her. ‘Dr Nina Wilde. Welcome to the Enklave.’ His voice was deep and heavy with smoker’s phlegm.
Nina tried not to show her fear. ‘Erich Kroll. I can’t say that I’m pleased to meet you.’
One fleshy eyebrow twitched upwards. ‘You know who I am.’
‘You’re famous. Well, infamous.’
‘As are you.’ Kroll gestured at Macy and Banna. ‘Wachen sie auf,’ he said. The two men carrying them deposited them far from gently on chairs against the wall – then slapped their faces.
‘Hey!’ Nina protested. ‘Leave them alone!’
Walther pounded a fist down on her upper back and knocked her to the floor. It felt as if a tree had fallen on her. ‘Shut up!’ he barked. ‘You do not give orders here.’
‘Sturmmann,’ said Kroll in mild reproach. ‘Get up, Dr Wilde.’
Nina stood painfully. By now, the other prisoners had been forced back to consciousness. ‘Nina?’ said Macy, confused, before fright took hold. ‘Oh my God! They – they killed the others, they—’
‘Macy, Macy!’ Nina cut in, trying to calm her. ‘It’s okay, we’ll be okay. They want something from us – they won’t do anything to us until they get it.’
‘The fish,’ croaked Banna. ‘Where is the Andreas relic?’
Kroll turned expectantly towards Rasche, who called back into the hall. Another man brought in the case containing the bronze artefact. The lid was raised to reveal the prize within.
Gausmann and Schneider stepped closer with greedy eyes, while Kroll leaned forward in his seat, almost willing the metal piece towards him. ‘Haben wir es endlich . . .’ the Nazi leader whispered.
Nina didn’t need to understand his words to know his meaning. ‘Yeah, you’ve got it,’ she said. ‘So why do you need us?’
‘Because you will help us to use it,’ Kroll replied. He rose, both hands flat on the oak desktop to push his bulk out of the chair. Despite being grossly obese, he was a threatening, dangerous figure, tall and overbearing. He stood before his prisoners. ‘It will lead us to the Spring of Immortality.’
‘The Spring of Immortality?’ Banna echoed. ‘But that is just a myth – a fantasy from the Alexander Romance.’
Kroll chuckled, a thoroughly humourless sound. ‘It is no fantasy, Dr Banna.’
‘Yeah, I think that’s proven by the fact that you’re all standing here and not rotting in your graves,’ said Nina. ‘So how did you find out about the statue of Bucephalus? You knew it was inside Alexander’s tomb even before the tomb was discovered – how?’
‘I will show you.’ Kroll returned to his desk. Rather than sit, though, he went to the huge hanging swastika behind.
Rasche spoke in German; the words were said with a degree of deference, but were still clearly critical, even challenging. The bald man shot him an irritated look. ‘It is my decision, and mine alone, Rasche.’ That he was replying in English told Nina that he was speaking for the benefit of the three visitors, letting them know who was in charge. ‘The more information they have, the faster they will be able to locate the spring.’
His subordinate was displeased at the dressing-down, but nodded. ‘Mein Führer.’
Kroll tugged a cord at one side of the banner, drawing the swastika aside like a curtain. Behind it was revealed a large metal door with a keyhole and combination dial: a safe.
The Nazi leader pushed his fingertips under the folds of his jowls and into his collar, pulling out a key on a gold chain. He inserted it into the keyhole and turned it, then – after a wary glance at the others in the room – moved in front of the dial to enter a combination. A dull click, and he pulled at a recessed handle. The heavy door slowly swung open.
Nina’s eyes widened in amazement as she took in what lay behind. It was no mere safe, but a vault. The metal-walled space was about twelve feet by twelve.
And packed with treasure.
Gold and silver glinted in the stark light of an overhead bulb. She saw coins, statues, even pieces of armour – all stored in open wooden crates stencilled with the eagle and swastika of the Third Reich. But it was clear what the former SS men considered the greatest treasure of all. In pride of place was a very large pottery jar inscribed with Greek text. A set of wooden steps was positioned by the pithos to give easier access to its silver-rimmed neck.
Kroll stepped into the vault. ‘Bring them,’ he ordered. The guards gestured with their guns. Nina and her companions hesitantly followed the overweight man into the confined space.
‘A family of Greek farmers had been protecting a shrine to Andreas beneath their house for centuries,’ explained Kroll. ‘They had kept his secret for all that time – until we discovered it.’
‘And stole it,’ Nina said, unable to contain her caustic disgust.
‘It was the property of the Reich.’
‘And after the Reich was destroyed, it just happened to stay in your hands, right?’
The Nazi’s eyes blazed with fury. ‘We are the Reich! As long as we persist, it will never be destroyed.’ With a visible effort, he calmed himself. ‘And it is because of this that we have persisted. It has kept us young for seventy years.’
‘I’m guessing that it’s not full of Metamucil.’
Kroll had apparently never heard of the dietary supplement; he ignored her and continued. ‘It contains water from the Spring of Immortality. I knew of the legend – Alexander had always been a hero of mine,’ he said in brief reverie, ‘bu
t it was hard to believe that it could be true. The moment I drank it, however, I knew. It had a strange glow, an almost electric charge – it was more than ordinary water. It would bring everlasting life to those who drank it – and when I read the text on the jar, I realised that the spring was still out there, waiting to be found.’
‘So you took it for yourself. And everything else in the shrine as well.’
‘It was needed.’ He gestured at the riches. ‘There was more to begin with – much more. But we had to use it. First to buy our freedom from the Allies after the war, then to pay for our escape to South America – and even more to buy the Enklave, to ensure our privacy as we worked to build the New Reich. Survival is an expensive business.’
Nina glanced back at Walther, remembering what he had said in Alexander’s tomb. ‘And I guess after all this time, you’re running out of gold.’
‘We will soon no longer need gold,’ Kroll replied. ‘All the money we could ever require will be ours – after we locate the spring. When the Egyptians announced the discovery of the tomb of Alexander the Great, I knew that was our chance to find it. But first we had to obtain the statue of Bucephalus. So we made plans to take it.’
‘How did you know about the statue?’ asked Banna. ‘It was not mentioned in any of the existing sources describing the tomb.’
The Nazi indicated the text upon the pithos. ‘From this.’ He turned to an old wood and metal box. ‘And this – the original text of the Alexander Romance, written by Andreas himself.’
Despite the situation, Nina couldn’t help but feel excitement. ‘You have the original?’
Kroll nodded. ‘There is far more to it than any of the later versions. But the text on the pithos told us the true meaning of what Andreas wrote. He hid the truth inside the fantasy . . . and also told us which parts were the truth. The spring is real. And Andreas returned to it, after Alexander’s death in 323 BC.’
Kingdom of Darkness Page 24
