The Gods of Atlantis

by David Gibbons

  Penn came back to him. ‘That’s it, all of the crates. They look like identical markings.’

  ‘It all makes sense,’ Hiebermeyer murmured. ‘It all fits.’

  ‘You’d better explain.’

  Hiebermeyer remained squatting. His long conversation with Dillen and Jack the day before about the events of 1945 was still fresh in his mind. He peered at Penn. ‘Those two officers in 1945, Major Mayne and Colonel Stein, they’re the key. Stein was in the Monuments and Fine Arts section, a genuine art expert, but the MFA was really a cover for a unit searching for Nazi secrets. Major Mayne was in 30 Commando Assault Unit, a deliberately misleading name for another one of those outfits. These two men only came together in the last hours on the way to this place, after Captain Frazer had returned from his visit to the camp and tipped off his friend Mayne at British HQ that there was something worth investigating here. We pieced all this together after Jack and his daughter talked to Frazer last year. A Jewish girl in the camp had drawn Frazer a picture. She’d been tortured and raped in the forest, in this bunker, but had managed to escape in the final days and was back in the camp immediately after liberation under the care of British nurses. The picture showed something she’d seen in the bunker, a golden reverse swastika that Frazer recognized as a lost antiquity from Troy. He and Mayne had excavated together at Mycenae before the war and had heard from an old Greek foreman the story of how the object had been found by Heinrich Schliemann and his wife Sophia in the Tomb of Agamemnon, and then secretly taken back to Germany. Frazer and Mayne were convinced it was the lost palladion, the sacred symbol of Troy taken by Agamemnon after he had defeated the Trojans. And now, knowing what is in these other crates, I understand,’ Hiebermeyer murmured. ‘It makes sense that the palladion should have ended up here. Absolute sense.’

  ‘Go on,’ Penn said. ‘These inscriptions?’

  ‘Look at the dates on these crates.’ Hiebermeyer pointed at the stencilled lettering and stamps where Penn had revealed them. ‘They’re all the same: 13 April 1945. That’s only two weeks before the Allies arrived here. Two weeks. We know that in the final months of the war Hitler ordered the treasures of the Berlin museums to be taken to secret storage outside the city. Franz Bormann went to the Zoo flak tower in Berlin and took away most of the crates stored there. A lot went to Austria, to the salt mines at Merkers, well away from Allied bombing and where the salt provided a good atmosphere for storage. So I ask myself the question: if there were still much better storage sites accessible, what on earth were the Nazis doing sending art and antiquities to this place, to a bunker in Lower Saxony, in early April 1945, right into the path of the Allied advance?’

  ‘Maybe into the eye of the storm,’ Penn suggested. ‘Maybe that was the calculation. Send them to the least likely place, and they might have the greatest chance of surviving undetected. When the Nazis built this bunker in 1942, they went to extraordinary lengths to conceal it. We think the entrance tunnel was rigged to self-destruct, but in the event, the British bomber raid on the night of 25 April did it for them. The self-destruct button may have been a final measure planned by someone who’d actually intended to remove this stuff beforehand and wanted all evidence destroyed. Take a look beyond the final crate. There’s a row of heavy-duty suitcases on the floor. I think someone may have been about to break down the contents of the crates into manageable packages, but events overtook them and the Allied front line moved faster than they’d expected.’

  ‘Or maybe whoever it was had expected a ceasefire, an armistice.’

  ‘Are we talking about Hitler? Surely by April 1945 a few crates of art would have been the least of his concerns?’

  Hiebermeyer shook his head. ‘There are other markings on the crates. They say Ahnenerbe, the Department of Cultural Heritage. And you can see the Sonnenrad sun symbol of the SS, and then the word Wewelsburg. You told me you’d studied the architectural plans for that place. The order castle of the SS, run by the man who signed the papers you found in this bunker. You see what I’m getting at?’

  Penn gasped. ‘Of course. Himmler. Heinrich Himmler.’

  ‘The second most powerful man in Nazi Germany, who maybe wanted to be the most powerful.’

  ‘Himmler,’ Penn repeated. ‘Didn’t he try to negotiate with the Americans, and then got excommunicated by Hitler for it?’

  Hiebermeyer nodded. ‘If I’m right about this, then maybe that’s where his gamble went wrong. A truce would have allowed him to clear this place out. I’m certain that the crates contain the lost treasures of Wewelsburg Castle: antiquities brought by the Ahnenerbe in the 1930s from around the world, hijacked by Himmler to fuel his fantasy of an Aryan prehistory, of a master race including the kings of ancient Greece, Agamemnon himself, and even the rulers of a mythical Atlantis. I’ve spent half my lifetime yearning to know what happened to these artefacts.’

  Penn had moved along to the side of the crate with the lid ajar, and rubbed the side of it. ‘Look at this one. The lettering’s different.’

  Hiebermeyer followed him up the narrow space and squatted down again, his suit crinkling and bulging as he did so. He stared at the lettering and numbers, his mind racing. ‘That’s it. That clinches it.’

  ‘Museum für Vor- und Frühgeschichte,’ Penn read out slowly. ‘Troia.’

  Hiebermeyer’s heart pounded. ‘That’s the Museum of Pre- and Proto-History in Berlin. That’s where the treasures were displayed that Schliemann had taken from Troy and given to the German people in 1881. In 1941 they were moved from the museum and stored in the Zoo flak tower. I always knew there would be a third crate,’ he said excitedly. ‘A crate containing the secret treasures Schliemann never gave to the German people but concealed himself somewhere in his home town near the Baltic, where Ahnenerbe researchers under Himmler discovered them. Treasures that included the golden reverse swastika, the Trojan palladion, which Himmler made into his most potent symbol.’

  ‘A third crate?’ Penn said. ‘Where are the other two?’

  ‘When Bormann went to the flak tower to take the treasures to the salt mines, he left behind two crates, the ones containing the Troy artefacts from the museum. They were still there during the final Soviet onslaught and were taken to Moscow, where they resurfaced in the 1990s. When the Soviets arrived in the flak tower, the door to the storage room was guarded by a Dr Unverzagt, an Ahnenerbe Nazi who had been director of the museum. When the story of his role came out after the artefacts were revealed in Moscow, most archaeologists assumed that he had been guarding the greatest treasures of his museum to ensure that they weren’t looted by Soviet soldiers and were captured intact; that he was doing it for the sake of archaeology and science. But I think they were wrong.’

  ‘You think Himmler was personally involved in this?’ Penn straightened up, and leaned over the half-open lid of the crate.

  ‘Himmler was obsessed with the treasures of Troy,’ Hiebermeyer replied. ‘And he was Unverzagt’s boss. The Ahnenerbe worshipped Himmler, the man who had given so many failed and second-rate academics the job of a lifetime. Many of them were all too happy to go along with the racist poison, and plenty of them believed in it. Why did Himmler order Bormann to leave those two crates in the Zoo tower? Because he wanted them for himself. Why were they still there when the Russians arrived? Because Himmler’s gamble didn’t pay off, and he had no time to remove them. Why was Unverzagt still there guarding them fanatically? Not for the sake of archaeology, but in the vain hope that his god Himmler would return.’

  ‘You should take a look in here,’ Penn said. Hiebermeyer heaved himself up, wincing as he pressed his injured wrist against his knee, then aimed his headlamp over the side of the crate. He could see neatly stacked smaller wooden boxes inside, labelled with swastikas and the SS Sonnenrad, evidently from Wewelsburg. One of them had a line of symbols along the top of the label he recognized from Stone Age cave paintings. He followed Penn’s beam. There was an empty space at the end of the crate, half filled with a
lumpy yellow substance covered with mould. He realized that it had been straw, cushioning material. Then his beam crossed Penn’s, and he froze.

  ‘Is that what you were looking for?’ Penn asked.

  Hiebermeyer was speechless. It was the shape of a swastika, indented in the straw, about fifteen centimetres across. It had clearly been a heavy object, metallic, judging by the depth of the indent. He scanned quickly around, looking inside the crate. The object that had made the indent was nowhere to be seen. ‘Is there any chance your people could have missed finding it?’ he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

  ‘None of the other crates are open. I told them to leave this part of the room until you arrived and we could look at it together. Apart from this, every inch of the chamber has been inspected, up to the laboratory door. Nothing has been found. If this was that golden object you were talking about, the Trojan palladion, then it looks as if someone scarpered with it in 1945. Odd, though, that it doesn’t seem to have been carefully packaged away like this other stuff, instead of just lying here in the straw.’

  Hiebermeyer swallowed hard. He had desperately hoped to find it. He brought his beam back to the shape in the straw, and stared. ‘That’s because it was never in the museum collection in Berlin, and it can only have been here in the bunker for a short time. We believe that after the Ahnenerbe discovered the palladion in Schliemann’s hiding place in his home town, it was stored in great secrecy in Wewelsburg Castle. We believe that Himmler imbued it with holy significance, perhaps involving it in some kind of initiation rite for a select few. It became a sacred symbol of the new creed, of the god Himmler had made himself. We know that it became the symbol of something called the Agamemnon Code, an activation code somehow tied up with Himmler’s plans for a dark scheme in the final days of the Reich.’

  ‘The reverse swastika on the letterhead of those order papers, marked Top Secret,’ Penn said. ‘Was that it?’

  Hiebermeyer nodded. ‘Himmler clearly envisaged a future for himself, rather than the self-immolation that Hitler and his cronies saw as their only way out. But before then, when the palladion had become like the Holy Grail, Himmler had it sent from Wewelsburg to a place of even greater secrecy. I mentioned salt mines? Well, Jack visited one of them last year on his hunt for this object. The man we now believe knows the use to which the palladion was to be put had blackmailed him into going there to retrieve it, by kidnapping his daughter. It had been put deep in the Wieliczka salt mine, in a shaft now flooded under almost a hundred metres of water, near the death camp at Auschwitz. All Jack found was a box containing an impression like this where the palladion had been stored. As the Soviets advanced towards that part of Poland, we believe the palladion was removed from the box and taken by another of Himmler’s chosen few on the march with the last inmates from Auschwitz to the west, to Belsen and this place. Among them was the girl who drew that image for Captain Frazer.’

  ‘And then someone took it from here, from this crate, in those final days.’

  ‘Perhaps on Himmler’s orders. Perhaps when the Agamemnon Code was activated.’

  Penn was silent for a moment, then took a ruler from his tool belt, leaned over and quickly measured the impression. ‘There is one place where I’ve seen a swastika shape like this, the same wide arms and distinctive cross. The more I look at it, the more I think it might be an exact fit. It’s on the door to the laboratory. It’s an indent just like this but within a roundel. We’re fairly sure it’s some kind of locking mechanism. Sergeant Jones thought it might be magnetic, but we won’t know until we inspect it. The door’s very slightly ajar. Maybe the palladion was a key to unlock what was in there. Maybe it unlocked other places like this, part of some scheme of Himmler’s that never came to fruition.’

  Hiebermeyer could barely breathe. Of course. It was a key.

  ‘Major Penn.’ A voice sounded through both of their intercoms. ‘You need to come to the laboratory door, now.’

  ‘Okay.’ Penn straightened up. ‘That’s my two sappers. And I just saw Sergeant Jones and Auxelle come through the chamber. Let’s move now.’

  Hiebermeyer followed Penn from the crates on to the main walkway. He glanced back, seeing where the Raphael was propped up, the mottled colours lost in the haze of green. Listening to the rasp of his own breathing, he was reminded of film he had seen of Jack and Costas rising from an underwater site, features of the archaeology clearly visible and then suddenly lost in a green-blue haze, as if they had passed through some kind of lens in the water. He thought about the painting again. Whatever Himmler had devised, whatever ghastly wonder-weapon he had been developing, he had not been above collecting the choicest Old Masters for his own private enjoyment: not for some Nazi Valhalla, but for a real future that he envisaged for himself, perhaps a new Wewelsburg arising in his imagination like Atlantis reborn. Hiebermeyer now knew something with cold certainty. Himmler may have been a fantasist, but there was a ruthless calculating streak to him. All of this had been carefully planned, and had been thwarted only by a misplaced gamble at the end. And if Himmler had planned to hold the world to ransom with his wonder-weapon, that threat remained for others like Saumerre to find and use. For the first time Hiebermeyer forced himself to face the reality of what might be in that laboratory ahead. He hoped that the nightmare would come to an end here and now.

  ‘Major Penn.’ The voice of one of the sappers came through their intercom. ‘The inspector and Sergeant Jones have already gone into the laboratory. I couldn’t stop them.’

  Penn snorted angrily and made his way over. The door was now half open, and there were lights moving inside. Hiebermeyer saw the swastika in the roundel that Penn had described. As they came closer, one of the sappers stepped up and stopped Penn. ‘Sir, you’ll see there’s a body in front of the door, mostly skeleton. We found it when we first arrived here twenty minutes ago, but he’s long dead and we didn’t see the need to disturb you. There was a smear of old blood on the door when we were cutting through. He was shot at close range in the back of the head, massive skull damage. You’ll see more of the same when you go in through that door. Been a little life-and-death struggle here with no winner as far as we can see. This one’s American, by the way.’

  Penn went straight to the form on the floor and leaned over it. ‘A lieutenant colonel’s silver oak leaf on the lapel,’ he murmured. ‘No division or corps insignia on the shoulders. He’s got a holstered Colt automatic, but he’s wearing a dress uniform, not a field uniform. Not a combat soldier.’ He peered at Hiebermeyer. ‘Sounds like our Monuments and Fine Arts man, Colonel Stein, wouldn’t you say?’

  Hiebermeyer nodded, staring at the body, his head swimming. There was a sudden commotion from within the laboratory, and the sound of something falling heavily. A voice came over the intercom. ‘Quick!’ They heard the French accent of the inspector. ‘Come and help! Sergeant Jones has collapsed!’

  Penn pushed into the chamber, the other two sappers following and Hiebermeyer bringing up the rear. He saw two more decomposed bodies lying entangled together just inside the door, and Sergeant Jones in his white suit stretched out beside them. The nearest body was wearing tattered striped prisoner clothes, but the one beneath it, lying face-down, wore British battledress, a major’s crown clearly visible on one shoulder. Hiebermeyer stared. It could only be Major Mayne. His revolver was still holstered, but his skeletal hand was behind his back, clutching a commando knife that poked up through the other man’s ribcage. The man in the prisoner’s uniform held a rusted pistol, a Walther, and there was a spent casing on the floor. Hiebermeyer saw a tattoo on a piece of skin that clung to the bones of the forearm. It was the SS mark. He barely had time to register it when Penn pulled his arm.

  ‘We’ve got to get Jones out of here,’ he said urgently. He looked angrily at Auxelle. ‘How long has he been like this?’

  ‘Only moments. But he had been breathing heavily. Maybe it was seeing the bodies.’

  ‘That’s not like Jone
s. More likely a malfunction with his oxygen. If that’s the case, we’ve only got minutes.’ He looked at the other two sappers. ‘You each take a leg, Auxelle and Hiebermeyer take the arms. I’ll support his waist. Let’s move.’

  Hiebermeyer lifted Jones’ arm but had forgotten his own twisted wrist and slipped with the weight, twisting round and falling back against the wall, his other hand clutching a rail and slipping into something glutinous. He pushed himself up with his back against the wall, and as he did so he tripped the electric light switch. The bare overhead bulbs flickered and then came on with a sudden dazzling glare, blinding him for a moment. Then he saw walls of a sickly pale blue, like the colour of a hospital operating room. The layer of yellow-green was still there, but the light rendered it opaque, a bilious colour. He saw a small refrigerator in front of Jones’ legs, its door ajar and the interior gleaming, empty. He stared at it, transfixed, his mind blank, and then he turned to look where he had put his hand.

  What he saw was an image of unspeakable horror. Along the side wall of the room were five gurneys, metal trolleys with their upper surfaces formed like shallow basins. Four contained human bodies, naked but grotesquely adiposed, as if they had been covered with a layer of white plaster. The two furthest bodies were strapped down but horribly twisted, like the plaster casts of bodies from Pompeii preserved in their death throes. His mind reeled. He forced himself to look. These people must have been strapped down alive in this laboratory, and were still alive when they were abandoned here. The third and fourth bodies were older cadavers that had been decapitated and disembowelled, with autopsy tools half rusted on a tray in front. The fifth gurney, the one he was holding, contained two severed heads, wax-like and hairless, staring at him blindly through sockets closed up with fatty secretion, the skulls held in the clutches of a three-armed forceps like the severed talons of some bird. They seemed to be embedded in a congealed layer, the glutinous substance he had put his hand into. He lifted it out, tendrils of congealed white and yellow dripping from his fingers. His stomach lurched as he realized what it was. He had seen this once inside a two-hundred-year-old lead coffin he had watched being excavated from a church crypt. The archaeologists had called it body liquor. He had put his hand into decomposed human fat.