The trip had taken only two days, sped along by the wonderful engine in The Peregrine’s private jet plane. It had been an entertaining trip, livened up by Morgan’s ability to spin colorful yarns and Andre’s endless trove of somewhat inappropriate jokes.
And so the foursome was now walking down the Potsdamer Platz, which lay just south of the Reichstag. The men and women that they passed were of two types: those who moved with furtive glances and obvious concern and the ones who smiled freely, walking with the confident strides of those for whom the world was their oyster.
Max ran a hand through his wavy hair and wondered what those latter people made of his olive-tinged skin and Mediterranean ancestry. He supposed they’d consider him a Gypsy, which was barely a step above the Jewish people that Hitler so disdained.
“You need to keep that frown off your mug,” Morgan whispered. “You look like a man who just swallowed something foul.”
“Thanks for the reminder. It gets worse every time I’m here. It’s like the hatred and madness of Hitler is befouling the air.”
“In many ways, that’s the case,” Andre said. The three men were huddled closely together, while Samantha had wandered further afield to examine the scenery. She was still within visual range, which made Max feel better. He didn’t want any of them to get separated. Andre continued, “A man like Hitler doesn’t need The Unnervum to broadcast his emotions across the nation. He’s persuasive and able to tap into the latent fears and desires of his people. That makes him far more dangerous than your garden-variety criminal.”
Morgan lowered his voice so that it was barely discernible. “Then maybe our real mission should be to find him and put a bullet in his head. Might do a lot of people a lot of good.”
Max shook his head. “The world’s already a powder keg. Can you imagine what would happen if word got out that a group of Americans snuck behind the German border and assassinated the Füehrer? There wouldn’t be any hope of staying neutral then. The US of A would be right in the middle of it all.”
Andre cleared his throat and said, “Looks like our little Samantha has made a friend.”
Morgan and Max looked up to see that Samantha was returning to them with another woman in tow. This girl was about the same age but of much stockier build. She wasn’t so much overweight as she was simply very thick all over. Her brown hair was pulled back severely against her skull and her face was unmade, with dark rings under her eyes. In a less harsh light, she might have been acceptably attractive but at present, she looked like she was living a very harsh life and it was rapidly catching up to her.
Samantha, in contrast, was beaming like a ray of sunshine. In flawless German, she said, “This is my friend Inga. We met when she came to Sovereign for a tennis tournament.”
Max and Andre had no trouble following the conversation but Morgan was momentarily lost. He was able to understand several languages on a rudimentary level but he was certainly not fluent. Thus, he was extremely grateful when Andre reached out and squeezed his elbow. Instantly, he was able to understand German as if he had been born to it. Morgan had to admit that magic was a most useful talent to possess.
Max was asking, “You’re a tennis player?”
Inga gave a weary shrug of her shoulders. “In my younger days. But now I am serving the Fatherland in the preferred way, by being a good wife and mother. I have two children now.”
Samantha added, “As soon as I found out that we were coming to Berlin, I sent her a message and asked her to meet us.”
“That’s why you insisted we visit the Platz,” Morgan muttered. He seemed just as surprised as Samantha that he was speaking German.
Covering her amusement, Samantha said, “Yes. I told her that we were looking for things that might be a bit unusual and she’s got a lead for us.”
“These days, there is no shortage of the unusual,” Inga said. “But I have a cousin who works in the Dahlem neighborhood. He says that the Reich has opened up a set of offices in the name of The Research and Teaching Community of the Ancestral Heritage.”
“That’s quite a mouthful,” Max said.
Inga nodded. “They are mostly academics, I have heard, but my cousin says that some of their offices are off-limits to all but researchers. He says that sometimes you can hear screams coming from there and he once saw a file marked Occult Forces.”
“Sounds promising.” Morgan favored the young woman with his best grin and he was pleased to see that she responded favorably. Though not as young as he used to be, he retained a rakish air. “Inga, could your cousin tell us how to get into this… Ancestral Heritage building?
“There is no need to ask him. I already know how.”
“And how is that?” The Peregrine asked.
“They’re always looking for volunteers for their experiments. They pay you.”
“Lovely,” Morgan said. “I figured they’d use prisoners for those.”
“They do but sometimes they don’t want degenerates for their trials. They need to test things on true Aryans.”
“Which we have the papers to prove that we are,” Samantha pointed out. “Will it matter that I’m a woman?”
“The Füehrer has put an emphasis on breeding the next generation of Germans. The only women used in the trials are criminals or Jews.”
“That works out well,” Max said. “If something goes terribly wrong while we’re inside, you can bail us out.”
Samantha appreciated the show of respect and she knew it wasn’t mere words. Though women were often treated as being less than their male counterparts in the workplace, she had always been highly valued with Assistance Unlimited and its allies. “I’ll come to your rescue if it comes to that,” she promised.
“Good.” Looking at Inga, Max asked, “So, how soon can we get inside?”
Inga seemed to think this entire affair spoke of pure madness. Nevertheless, she calmly replied, “You have arrived just in time. Today is volunteer day. I can have you inside in less than an hour.” She looked away and added, “I just hope you’ll get back eventually.”
CHAPTER IX
Inside the OFP
Dieter Schneider watched as Vulthar continued his preparations for the rituals that were supposed to wake up the Old Ones. One of the interior laboratories had been completely cleared, leaving a large open expanse for Vulthar’s work.
Dieter had stopped thinking of the man before him as being Lars. It wasn’t as easy to put aside thoughts of Sonya when he dealt with Darhoth but in this case, there were so many differences between Vulthar and the man whose body he now utilized that it was impossible not to notice them.
Lars had been a man of action. He’d possessed a quick mind, to be sure, but he was a solider first and foremost. When in doubt, he shot things. Vulthar was much more silent and observant. He knew his role in the great tapestry of things. He was a follower of Darhoth’s and knew when to keep his mouth shut. But there was no doubt of the evil intelligence that brewed behind his narrowed eyes. He exuded malevolence and whenever he spoke to a human being, his tone was full of disdain. It was like he was being forced to deal with creatures that were less than cockroaches to him and Dieter wondered, ultimately, if that was the way Darhoth and all of her ilk felt, as well.
Dieter cleared his throat and Vulthar looked up in annoyance. His fingers were dripping with calf’s blood, which he had been using to draw a pentagram on the floor.
Vulthar had traded in Lars’ military uniform in favor of a set of long green robes that were cinched around his waist by a rope belt. As he stood up, he pulled the belt tighter and Dieter winced. It was visibly digging into the flesh and had to be quite painful. Perhaps, he mused, that was intentional on Vulthar’s part.