The Lance

by Alex Lukeman

  "Look there!" Hans pointed through the windshield.

  He slowed and brought the Tucker to a halt. On the side of one of the jagged peaks, ice and snow had broken loose in the spring thaw. A gray, regular outline was visible against the dark rock.

  "What the hell is that?" Hans let the engine idle.

  "I don't know. It looks man made. That's where the readings come from."

  "I don't remember anything about a station or camp here."

  Stations were often abandoned in the Antarctic. Both men were familiar with the history of the region. Neither had ever heard of anything in this area.

  They climbed down from the cab and walked to the mountain wall. Two wide doors of rusting steel, each twelve feet high, were set into the rock. Ice and snow blocked the lower part of the doors.

  Excitement filled both men.

  "What do you think?" Otto said. "Can we get in?"

  "Maybe we can push the debris aside."

  "Let's try it."

  The Sno-Cat was equipped with a heavy blade used to groom the station runway for supply planes. Otto and Hans climbed back into the cab. Hans engaged the four speed transmission and brought the Tucker around to the doors. He lowered the blade and began working. In twenty minutes, the way was clear.

  The two men stood before the doors. There was a large, U-shaped handle on each one.

  "They have to open in." Hans rubbed his glove across his face. "No one would have doors that opened out. They'd get blocked by snow."

  "I wonder if they're locked?"

  "Against what? Penguins? Let's push and see."

  They pushed against one of the doors. Grunting, they pushed harder. With a rusted squeal, the steel door opened. They pushed at the other door and swung it inward. The interior lay in darkness.

  Hans went back to the idling cat, backed it around and pointed it straight at the open entrance. He switched on the six halogen headlamps and hit high beam. The interior lit up with brilliant white light. He took two hand held torches from the cab and joined Otto.

  A high roofed tunnel ran straight as an arrow into the mountain. Bare electric light bulbs, long dark, were spaced down the center of the ceiling.

  "Whoever built this bored right into the mountain."

  "What could it have been for?" Otto said. "This is huge. It would take a lot of equipment. I never heard of anything like this down here."

  A little way in, Hans paused at a room on the right.

  "This could have been a guardroom." He pointed at a frost covered stove in the corner. "That looks like something from sixty or seventy years ago."

  "A military base? For what? Who built it?"

  On the other side of the corridor was a kitchen and eating area, big enough for a hundred men. They passed two barracks rooms with gray wooden lockers still in place at the ends of the bunks. Hans opened one. Empty.

  They walked down the corridor, past what might have been officer's quarters with two bunks to a room. They came upon a radio room. A microphone and telegraph key still sat on top of a metal desk, next to a large transmitter console tied with snaking cables to a tall rack of receivers and test equipment. Next to the transmitter was a wooden box. Otto opened the box. Inside was something like a typewriter, with a complex keyboard arrangement of letters and buttons.

  Everything was covered by a thick layer of white frost. Otto wiped off the face plate of the silent transmitter. The switches were marked in German. Both men saw the swastika at the same time.

  "Holy shit! This must be Doenitz's secret base!"

  Grand Admiral Karl Doenitz, head of Nazi Germany's naval forces, had once referred to "an invincible fortress in the Antarctic", but no one had ever found evidence of its existence. Now Otto and Hans were standing in it.

  Hans picked up a logbook lying on the desk. He thumbed through it without absorbing the words, set it down again.

  "This short wave stuff was state of the art in the forties," Otto said. "Look at the size of that transmitter. Must be two kilowatts at least. There've been rumors of this place since the war, but no one ever knew where it was, or if it was real."

  "Berlin isn't going to be happy about this."

  "No one wants to think about that Nazi crap anymore. What they do with this is their business. But we have to report it."

  They left the radio room and continued down the passage. The next room contained two large diesel generators, silent and cold. Exhaust tubes disappeared into the ceiling.

  Down the tunnel a series of four rooms opened to the sides. Three were empty. The fourth held six large wooden crates, each stenciled in black with an eagle and swastika. Hans rubbed frost away from a label.

  He looked at Otto. "It says 'kitchen supplies'."

  "That's a lot of supplies."

  In the corner Otto spied a long crowbar, set against the icy wall. He picked it up and pried away the lid of a crate. He shone his light inside.

  "Not kitchen supplies. Look at this!"

  The crate was filled with paintings. They peered in.

  "That's a Vermeer!" Hans said. "I recognize the style. Or it's a damn good copy."

  "No one would stash a copy here." Otto pushed the lid back in place. "That painting is worth a fortune. It must have been stolen during the war. I'll bet all these crates are full of things stolen by the Nazis."

  They walked down the tunnel and passed two large closed doors on their left. The doors didn't budge when Otto tried to open them. At the end of the corridor they came to a steel door with a spoked wheel and a combination dial.

  Hans tried to turn the wheel, but it was locked in place.

  "If they left paintings worth millions outside this vault, what could be in here?"

  Otto shrugged. "Who knows? We'd better get back and tell the others. It's going to play hell with our research time once Berlin sends people to check it out."

  "Look on the bright side. There has to be a finder's fee for that art work. Maybe we'll get some real funding out of it. Publicity, too. That never hurts."

  In the scientific world, fame was a good thing. Both men thought that the future had just gotten brighter.

  Back at the station, Otto contacted Berlin by satellite with news of the find. It never occurred to him that someone else might be listening.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In a secluded enclave outside of Washington, the Grand Master of the Council sat behind his desk. He took a deep breath of the heady aroma rising from a crystal snifter of Louis XIII cognac in his hand.

  The light was fading. The French doors of the library were open. It was warm even though October was more than half gone. The sound of a fountain came from somewhere in the garden behind the house. The library was filled with books, many in German. Nietzsche, Heidegger, Marx, Engles, all were there. There was even a well-worn, autographed copy of Mein Kampf.

  A glassed gun case of rifles and shotguns stood in one corner. Antique prints of European hunting scenes hung nearby. A painting of Frederick Barbarossa, the Holy Roman Emperor, stared out from the wall behind the desk. His expression was stern.

  Photographs of the Grand Master with congressional figures, business leaders and Presidents covered one wall. In one photo a blond haired young man stood in cap and gown before the entrance to Yale University. A tall, brittle woman in a blue dress stood next to him.

  The floor of the library was covered with thick Persian carpeting. A maroon Chesterfield couch with two matching chairs was placed near the garden doors. In the far corner, a mounted set of antique armor stood guard.

  The Grand Master had the kind of face people trusted. No one could have guessed his real thoughts. No one would have believed them possible.

  His encrypted phone rang.

  "Yes?"

  The voice on the other end spoke in German. It was exultant.

  "The Spear has been found!"

  The Grand Master felt a surge of adrenaline. At last! With the Lance recovered, success was certain

  "Secured?"
r />   "Not yet, but a unit has been activated."

  "When will they arrive?"

  "ETA six hours. Further transport tomorrow afternoon."

  "Excellent. Arrange a conference for nine tomorrow evening."

  "As you command."

  The Grand Master set the phone down. He could barely contain his excitement. He went to the painting of Frederick Barbarossa, swung the picture away from the wall and opened a safe. He took out a cracked black leather binder embossed in gold with an eagle and swastika. The binder contained SS Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler's long term plan for after the war.

  PARSIFAL.

  The Grand Master knew the contents by heart, but it always inspired him to read the vision of the Reichsfuhrer. He opened the binder. The pages were foxed and turning brown. The neat, ordered lines of type were still legible. He read for a few moments. He set the PARSIFAL documents aside and rested his hand on a thin booklet. The cover page was inscribed with the runic letters of the old Germanic tribes.

  His father had been one of Himmler's inner circle. All through his childhood and early years, his father had taught him. Prepared him for the day when his father had shown him the binder and told him of PARSIFAL. Of the Grand Council. Then he'd talked about the ritual that had brought German success after success early in the war.

  "I was having dinner with Himmler and Heydrich in the North Tower of the Reichsfuhrer's castle." His father had sighed, remembering when the swastika had flown over three continents.

  "Heydrich said he had written down the words of the invocation. Himmler was Grand Master of the Council but it was always Heydrich who invoked the power of the Spear. After he was assassinated in '42, things turned against us."

  "But the Fuhrer, father. Surely he could have carried it on, or the Reichsfuhrer."

  His father had snorted in contempt. "The Fuhrer! In the beginning, he understood. He believed. He had learned. He did what was necessary. He followed the ritual. But he turned his back on the old ways. He forgot where his power came from and became caught in the illusion of his own will. You must never make that mistake.

  "Himmler tried to continue, but the power is…difficult…to control. It will not respond unless conditions are perfect. The right day and time. The right setting. Everything must be exact."

  His father had held up the booklet with the runes on the cover. "We will study this together. One day we will retrieve the Spear. On that day the Reich will be reborn. If I am gone, it will be your duty to speak these words. If your honor is pure, if your loyalty is true, you will prevail."

  "Yes, Father."

  He had never forgotten.

  The final stages of PARSIFAL were unfolding. It couldn't be coincidence that the Holy Spear had been found just as the forces he'd set in motion were coming together. It was a sign from the gods, a sign he was favored. It was only right, his just due. The Grand Master raised his glass toward the painting of Barbarossa and smiled.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Carter found Arslanian's store on a narrow side street of the Armenian quarter. The metal gate that protected the shop was rolled up. The entrance was stacked with hand crafted Sabbath trays, candlestick holders, plates and ceramics decorated with vivid colors, flowers and animals.

  The shop stretched back from the street through the entire block. The walls were lined with goods. The interior was in shadow. A sliver of daylight came from a door cracked open at the far end.

  Halfway down, someone sat in a swiveled wooden office chair at a desk piled high with papers and pots. The chair was turned away from the entrance. The figure wasn't moving.

  Carter's ear began itching. The darkness of the shop didn't feel right. He slipped his pistol out and held it down by his right side. He moved away from the light at the entrance, toward the figure in the chair, scanning the shadows.

  He reached the desk and turned the chair around. Arslanian's body slumped over and slid to the floor. Something fell from his right hand.

  There was a small hole in his forehead. Blood trickled from his ear and into his beard. His eyes were open. They told nothing about whoever had killed him. The only messages Carter had ever seen in dead men's eyes were reminders of his own mortality.

  Arslanian's cheek was warm, the blood not yet dry. The killer had been here a few minutes before. Probably right after Arslanian opened up for the day.

  Nick bent down to pick up whatever had dropped from Arslanian's dead fingers. A soft sound like a sneeze came from somewhere in the darkness of the shop. A stinging wind passed the back of his skull and a vase exploded behind him. He ducked and fired three quick shots over the desk at the back.

  Pottery shattered along the wall where the rounds hit. The .45 sounded like cannon fire in the narrow confines of the shop. A rapid patter of silenced shots sent broken plates raining down on his head. There was a burst of daylight and the sound of the back door slamming shut. Nick got up and ran to the back. He stood on the side and pulled open the door.

  The door opened onto a walled garden. A small fountain trickled under a tree shading a rickety table and two chairs. There was an ashtray on the table. A vase held wilted red flowers. In the far wall was a closed wooden gate.

  Nick ran across the garden and swung the gate open. He glanced into the street on the other side of the wall. Two Armenian priests were walking toward the entrance to the quarter and St. James Cathedral. Another priest in an odd hat and black ankle-length robe walked in the opposite direction. Across the way a stout couple looked at postcards. There were shopkeepers, food vendors, strollers. Everything looked normal. There was no way to identify the assassin.

  He holstered the .45, closed the gate and bolted it. He went back into the shop and closed the rear door. A crowd began to gather in front, drawn by the gunfire.

  Rivka Stern, Nick's Shin Bet watcher, came in through the entrance. She had a Baby Eagle nine mil out and held by her side. Her dark, thick hair was pinned up under a pale yellow scarf. She wore an olive green skirt that came to her knees, sturdy sandals tied with thongs on her lower legs and a loose tan shirt of cotton under a light tan jacket. She had wide hips and full breasts bound close under her shirt. Her skin was dusky with the legacy of the Middle East. Sunglasses hid her eyes.

  "What happened?" Her voice was low, tense.

  "I found Arslanian dead. Someone took a shot at me. I shot back. He got away through the rear."

  Rivka holstered her pistol, took out a phone, dialed, and began talking. Nick looked at what had fallen from Arslanian's hand. It was a flash drive. He dropped it in his jacket pocket.

  He looked at his watch. It was only 2:30 in the morning in Washington, but Harker needed to know about this.

  "Yes, Nick." Her voice was full of sleep. She cleared her throat. "What's happening?" She coughed.

  "Arslanian's dead. Someone put a hit on him before we could meet. The shooter was waiting for me but he missed. He got away."

  "You're sure he was after you as well?"

  "Had to be. Arslanian had only been dead a few minutes. The shop was open to anyone and the killer was still inside. When he missed me he got out fast."

  "Who knew you were going there this morning?"

  "No one except Shin Bet and you."

  "That's a short list."

  There was a brief silence while Harker thought about that.

  "What's your plan?" She coughed.

  "I don't have one. Herzog will think of something. I'm following his lead right now."

  "You'd better watch your step. All right, I'll see what I can uncover at this end."

  "I'll be sending something to you." He fingered the drive in his pocket.

  "Keep me posted." She ended the call.

  Rivka stood near. He caught her scent, a subtle combination of musk and Judean flowers.

  "Calling your mother?"

  "Yes. Someone knew I was coming. The timing's too much of a coincidence."

  "You could be right. We'll talk it over with Ari."


  Police showed up and cordoned off the shop. Two more Shin Bet agents arrived. Carter took another look around. He knew the cops would do a better job of finding anything useful than he would. They left to meet with Ari.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Elizabeth Harker leaned back in her black leather chair. She took a tissue from a box on the desk and coughed into it. She folded it and dropped it into the wastebasket. She tapped her pen on the desk and thought about Nick.

  Two days on the ground and he was already up to his neck in the madness of the Middle East. It was uncanny how much trouble he drew to himself. She sipped from the cup of coffee she'd brewed and added more sugar. She broke into a fit of coughing, almost spilling the coffee. She waited for it to pass, blotted her lips with a tissue. She excavated an inhaler from her purse and took in a labored breath.

  Elizabeth had been up since Nick's call, running through possibilities. She'd had no reason to think someone would kill Arslanian. She'd had no reason to think someone would try to take Nick off the board. Someone didn't want Arslanian talking to Nick or anyone else.

  Her intuition bugged her, demanding attention. It was something she didn't talk about, intuition. Her male peers would have rolled their eyes if they knew how she operated. Sometimes it made her feel like a modern day Cassandra, warning of disaster and trouble to come.

  Something was very wrong.

  Her phone rang.

  "Director, it's Stephanie. General Hood is in Walter Reed. He went down with a stroke last night."

  Stephanie Willits was Elizabeth's deputy and right arm. General Hood was the Director of the National Security Agency and Elizabeth's ally.

  "What's the prognosis?"

  "It doesn't look good. He's not going to be able to run the agency. My sources say his successor will be General Dysart."

  "Where are you now, Steph?" Elizabeth heard the sound of traffic in the background.

  "On the Beltway, on my way in. Traffic's bad, like always. Maybe thirty minutes."