by K. T. Tomb
“I’m sure that he has more to keep him occupied than to have me running around the world on his dime for revenge.” She liked that response, since she still wasn’t sure how she felt about Kessler.
“You’re probably right.” Peter frowned, which was a much more fitting expression than that smug grin. “Well then, the next logical question is, how would sending you on a quest for a mythological Norse god’s weapon benefit him?”
“He’s a billionaire. He’s obviously got money to burn on chasing a fantasy.”
“I’m serious, Phoe. I’m just stating the facts. Simon Kessler is a billionaire industrialist with certain eccentricities. He has asked you to find an object that only comic book enthusiasts believe to exist. What possible benefit could be derived from having it in his possession?”
“True. But you and I know that if Mjölnir actually existed, it would change Norse mythology as we know it. What did people think of Troy before Heinrich Schliemann came along? Just like the mythical Trojan Horse and Helen, all of a sudden, scholars would move the Norse gods into the history books instead of comic books. It could rewrite history!”
Peter’s left eyebrow rose slightly, and his sky-blue eyes were aglow with excitement.
“Hmmm... maybe there is something to this. I guess we will find out soon enough, although Iran might be a better choice. Too bad Americans are hated there right now... Maybe India, if Germany turns out to be bone dry.”
Phoe worked hard at keeping her mouth from dropping wide open. He was on exactly the same page as she was. It shouldn’t have surprised her; after all, he knew what they were after and had probably done some research of his own. It was enough to help reinforce that the tentative plan she had laid out was the right one. She wasn’t forced to admit it outright, because they had arrived at their destination.
The limo parked next to a private jet near a hangar. Peter and Phoe exited the vehicle while the limo driver loaded their luggage onto the jet. Simon Kessler stood at the base of the stairs. ‘G150’ was painted on the tail wing and ‘Kessler Enterprises’ with his logo covered the side. Peter nodded approvingly, while Phoe fought not to let the fact she was in awe slip through. Not in Kessler’s presence.
Kessler waited for them to approach and extended his right hand to Peter.
“So, Mr. Kellerman... have you ever been on a private jet before?”
“I haven’t accumulated the funds to start thinking about flying on anything other than first class, Mr. Kessler.” Peter chuckled, and Phoe could almost see his infectious charm ooze toward her employer.
“Good answer, Peter,” said Kessler, chuckling along with him. “Please, call me Simon.”
Seeking to avoid being caught up in the overdose of testosterone, Phoe sought to get a peek inside the jet from where they stood.
“It’s a Gulfstream G150. Built more for luxury than speed, but there’s plenty of that when needed,” said Kessler, watching Phoe’s fascination.
“Good to know,” said Peter.
“Yes, she is a beauty. Don’t let anything happen to her.”
“We won’t.”
“I was talking about Phoe. The plane can be replaced.”
Phoe whirled around to see Kessler was watching her, while Peter nodded thoughtfully.
“I’ll protect her with my very life,” said Peter, turning his attention to the plane.
“Good. See that you do.”
The two men watched Phoe board the jet. But a moment later, she ran back down the stairs and headed for the limo.
“No! Hell no!” shouted Kessler as he pursued her to the car. “What’s the matter? You agreed and signed the contract!”
Phoe leaned her back against the limo with her arms crossed. Ignoring Simon Kessler, she pointed to the top of the stairs, motioning for Peter to go take a look. He trotted up the stairs and stepped through the open door. It looked quite nice, plush—definitely a rich guy’s cushy ride. At one of the tables and regarding him from an overstuffed leather chair was the guy who screwed up Phoe’s last trip.
“Hello, Peter,” said Jonathan Kessler. “How nice to see you again... you cheating asshole!”
Chapter Eight
Phoe glared at Simon Kessler, not buying a damned thing he said as he tried to explain why his son is on the jet.
“Phoe. I know you believe that Jonathan may have been responsible for slowing you down the last time,” he said, pleading for her to reconsider her resignation. “I understand that the very sight of him causes you pain. But you have to understand that I need someone other than the pilot to stay with the jet while you and Peter are out and about finding Thor’s Hammer.”
She made no effort to conceal her glare from him. She wasn’t buying his story.
“He is not joining you on your quest.”
Her expression softened... slightly. “Do you give me your word?”
“Absolutely. I give my word that you are under no obligation whatsoever to have my son tag along while you find my hammer.”
“We’ll see,” she grumbled. “But any more unpleasant surprises and I’m out. Done. Got it?”
A smart, highly successful businessman, he nodded courteously. She hated the look in his eye, which spoke of his enjoyment of the victory he had just won. Like the extra tug-of-war over Jonathan’s presence was a nice little bonus. Still, she allowed Kessler to steer her up the stairs and back on board the plane.
A female flight attendant dressed in a dark blue vest covering a red button-down shirt greeted her when she stepped into the main cabin. Why of course! Phoe thought to herself, noting the young woman’s ruffled miniskirt and Hollywood smile.
“Can I get you a beverage or a menu before we take off?”
“No, thank you...” Phoe’s comment trailed off as she took in the plane’s opulent interior.
“If you need anything on our trip to Germany, just ask,” said the attendant. “We will stop briefly in New York for refueling before continuing on to Frankfurt.”
“Well, okay,” she said, looking for Peter.
He motioned for her to join him at one of the seats with a laptop connected. Once she buckled herself in, she was delighted to find that she didn’t need to wait to be airborne before accessing the plane’s WiFi system. Peter had already started the expedition’s research about swastika history, and she joined him, focusing exclusively on how the ancient symbol pertained to Thor.
After some brief safety announcements, not quite as tedious as on a commercial airline, the pilot added his advisory over the intercom. It marked the true start of their journey, and the moment wasn’t lost on Phoe. For better or for worse, the search for Thor’s Hammer had officially begun.
Chapter Nine
5:30 a.m. Frankfurt, Germany
“Phoe. We’re here.”
She looked up to see Peter standing over her, yawning. Disoriented, she glanced around the cabin, expecting to see her familiar bedroom and find that everything so far had all been just a dream.
“I don’t know how you could have missed Captain Sampras’ final announcement. You must have been really tired. You’ve been zoned out for hours.”
“What time is it?”
“Just after five-thirty, Frankfurt time. Reset your watch and let’s get going. There’s a rental car waiting for us outside.”
Phoe checked her fanny pack, grabbed her coat, and prepared to leave the plane. Two customs officers were checking Jonathan’s and Peter’s passports. She got hers out and went through the security checkpoint.
After everyone checked into the country, Peter got into the driver’s side of the Jeep waiting for them. Jonathan started to get in the front passenger seat when Phoe stopped him.
“Listen, you little freak! I don’t care whose son you are! You’re not getting a chance to screw this up!”
The doughy-faced kid with a perpetual cowlick on the top of his thick head of dark red hair looked as if his mother had just scolded him. Phoe realized she had been a queen-sized bitch to him
, often, since first meeting him. For a moment, she hated herself for being so gruff with him, but the Olmec relic screw-up made it damned near impossible not to see rivers of red.
“Peter doesn’t know how to speak German,” he said shyly. “I do.”
Phoe looked at Peter, pleadingly. “You don’t know German?”
“Neither do you, so what’s your point?” he retorted with a smug look.
She turned back to Jonathan. “You really speak German?”
He nodded.
“Okay. You can go with us, even though your dad promised you would stay on the plane. Get in the back and don’t speak unless I tell you to speak. Are we clear?”
His dull blue eyes came alive and he climbed into the back seat. She was pretty sure that he would start panting and slobbering like a Labrador. Once Phoe was situated, Peter started the engine and set the GPS for Fulda.
The countryside provided gorgeous views as they made their way to the Rhön and Vogelsberg mountains. An hour passed while the Jeep climbed into the higher elevations, until they reached the city of Fulda in Hessen, Germany. The architecture from centuries completed a breathtaking scene against the backdrop of the picturesque German mountains. With its charming gondolas, the Fulda River flowing through the city was reminiscent of Venice, and the air carried a slight chill. Phoe was thankful they weren’t making the trek in winter.
“We’re looking for Dieter Rietz,” Phoe advised while finding it hard to focus on the task at hand. The city was almost too easy to fall in love with, having a siren effect on them all.
“Do you have an address?” Peter asked, gawking at the scenery, and more than once almost driving off the road.
“No. Just directions, but keep your eyes on the road, please. For some reason, there is no address registered,” she said. “I double-checked it on the flight and couldn’t find anything besides the directions.”
The cell phone given to her by the elder Kessler rang inside her fanny pack.
“Hello, Phoe.” It was Simon. “It seems you have made your first stop. Germany is a beautiful country, is it not? I actually drove through Fulda in the fall once. Beautiful, but cold as hell.”
“Yes, we’re here.”
“Give me a call when you’re done in Germany. Have fun, but remember why you’re there.”
“That’s why I have you to remind me, Simon. Thanks.”
She hung up the phone, wondering about the distinct feeling she had of the senior Kessler doing more than just checking up on them. He was acting more like a virtual guide, with obvious access to their whereabouts. She shivered.
Before long, the directions led them to turn off the main road and onto a long driveway leading to a small house surrounded by tall pines and holly bushes. Phoe made a mental note that there wasn’t a mailbox. They stopped the vehicle just short of the house. All three got out to investigate, zipping up their coats.
They strolled up to the front door and Phoe noticed an embroidered “Geh weg!” wicker welcome mat. She knew just enough German to know that it didn’t mean “welcome,” so she asked Jonathan to translate it.
“It means ‘go away.’ Looks like someone doesn’t want us here.”
“Like that’s ever stopped me before,” she huffed. But, when no one responded after five minutes of various patterns of knocking, she changed her tune.
“Maybe no one’s home,” said Peter, stating the obvious.
Suddenly, the double-click pump of a shotgun resounded from the other side of the door. Surprised, Peter grabbed Phoe and carried her to the grass next to the walk as a loud blast blew a hole in the door. Jonathan cowered on his knees after nearly getting hit by shotgun pellets and flying debris. All three scurried for cover as the front door opened.
An old woman ambled on to the porch holding the weapon which had obliterated much of her door. Jonathan began to whimper when she aimed at the bush he had scrambled behind, but before he could rise and get himself killed, Peter rushed from the other side and knocked the woman to the porch. He wrestled the gun away while she screamed at him in German and pummeled him with her fists.
Meanwhile, Phoe decided to take her chances with a side window. She badly frightened an old man sitting at a desk facing the window. They both screamed, and Phoe ran back to the front door where Peter was trying to restrain the old woman without hurting her.
“Jonathan? Where the hell are you?”
“I’m over here.”
“Where? What in the hell? Quit hiding, get your ass over here, and start translating before we all end up shot!”
“Okay... but—”
“Grow a couple and get over here, now!”
Jonathan crept up to the porch while Phoe used universally understood hand movements to assure the elderly couple that they were not there to hurt them. The woman started to calm down, but the man took off running.
“Follow me, Jonathan—you better keep up!”
“I’m trying!”
Good... seeing some anger there. Maybe, just maybe, the little Kessler boy will come through...
The smell of burnt cinnamon filled her nostrils as she chased the old guy down a hallway.
The old man ran into a bedroom. Phoe realized that it could turn into a life or death struggle if he retrieved a weapon, like a Luger or another shotgun from the room, and caution would’ve been logical. But her instincts told her to bust into the room before he had a chance to get to another weapon. The door, fortunately, was unlocked.
Badly frightened, the old man was on his knees before a bed, and his hands were behind his head.
Is he surrendering?
“Talk to him, Jonathan!”
“Okay... but give me a moment—”
“We might not have a moment. Get it together or I swear I’ll…”
From there, it made little sense to her. Gibberish, which embarrassed her since all she knew how to speak was English. She would have to seriously improve her understanding and use of other languages. Otherwise, she would have to give up that side of the business and stick to minding her little store in Taos, she realized.
Jonathan mentioned the English phrase ‘Hammer of Thor,’ and the old man’s expression changed from fear to recognition. He shook his head and replied to Jonathan’s question in German.
“I think he can help us,” Jonathan reported to her, smiling with obvious pride for his success. “He is familiar with what you seek.”
Chapter Ten
Mr. and Mrs. Rietz sat on a flowered loveseat from yesteryear. Peter and Phoe stood nearby along with Jonathan. As it turned out, Dieter could speak a little English. Gerda, meanwhile, was fairly fluent.
Phoe had noticed knickknacks and pictures from a long-ago era. Several pictures were of Dieter and old army, actually, navy buddies playing around as they posed, and each had red armbands on their left arms. They were certainly among some who had been a part of the Third Reich and it made her stomach squirm. Besides that uneasy feeling, she was aware of the fact that the Rietz couple seemed to be enjoying some great joke at their expense.
“Please forgive Dieter,” Gerda began, not admitting that she was the one who had actually been the aggressor rather than her husband. “He has little experience with Americans. Please tell me about Thor again. I have not laughed so hard in such a long time.” She kept her shotgun next to her. But at least she was smiling.
“Mrs. Rietz. I’m glad I was able to amuse you. I did my research and have found out that you are an expert in the swastika being linked to the mythological God of Thunder,” Phoe announced in a not-so-friendly tone. Gerda’s smile faded.
“You are serious about looking for Thor’s Hammer? This is not some inquiry about the Nazis for somebody’s book or documentary?”
Phoe nodded in response to her first question.
“Most people believe Mjölnir is mere myth and belongs in comic books. Perhaps it is better that it stays that way?”
“Perhaps,” admitted Phoe, believing that agreement with Gerd
a was a better tactic for getting information from her than disagreement.
“Well, this is different than usual, which makes it intriguing, at least. But, I hope I don’t disappoint you with not much more than anyone can Google for these days. The swastika has evolved from the Swastik. Most prefer to call the former the Swastik to keep the two separate. Surely you already know the Swastik has been around for thousands of years. Used most frequently as an ancient religious symbol by the Greeks, it was relied on as a good luck symbol. Didn’t bring us much luck in World War II.” She chuckled.
“What about the connection to Thor?” asked Phoe, trying to remain patient. Older people rattled off facts at a slower pace than she liked, but she tried picturing Gerda as her paternal grandmother, with whom she had a close bond up until she’d died three years earlier.
She looked at Phoe with curiosity. “Why Thor? Why not pursue the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus?”
“Because this connection goes further than the basic information you’ve shared,” said Phoe, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “The Greeks influenced the Vikings, who unabashedly took the Swastik and associated it with their god, Thor. Maybe the Norwegians thought they could get one up on the Greeks, who had no counterpart for Thor.”
Everyone laughed, including Dieter, once Gerda explained the joke to him in German.
“Well, Ms. Phoenix, perhaps both cultures were just as devoted to their gods,” said Gerda. “The Swastik goes well beyond the Greeks or the Norse. Both it and the sunwheel, with which some of the natives of your own nation are well acquainted, are nearly interchangeable with Mjölnir, but the interesting thing about the Norse is that they took it a step further, creating a secret society based on a magical and metaphysical link between the Swastik and the God of Thunder.”
She grew serious and leaned forward on the loveseat.
“Ms. Phoenix, you came to the right place, though I will have to do a great deal more to protect myself from anyone else coming around again.”
Phoe assumed from that response that they weren’t the only visitors who had discovered that Gerda Reitz knew a good bit about the connection between the Swastika and Thor’s Hammer. Not only was that an explanation for why they had been greeted by a blast from a shotgun, but also sent a chill up her spine when she realized that they might not be the only ones seeking the legendary relic. If that wasn’t enough to make the hair stand up on the back of her neck, the tone Gerda used as she continued would have been.
