"So here we are again!" Kohl exclaimed as the staff car grated to a stop in the gravel outside the entrance, the door flanked this time by sandbagged sentry posts with machine guns. "It brings back memories of a happier time."
Drexler looked out at the huge dim house. "It brings back memories of how far we've fallen, Otto," he replied. He was in no mood to reassure his father-in-law. "We're in desperate times. So you're going to have to charm desperately: for your daughter's sake."
"If it was up to me she'd be out of Germany and safe by now."
"If it was up to you I'd be cuckolded by an American flyboy living on the loot you plan to pirate out of Germany!"
Kohl sulked. "A fine mood you're in on this critical evening."
"The eve of Götterdämmerung," interjected Schmidt to break off the squabbling. "The Twilight of the Gods. Time for the unsheathing of the sword."
Kohl looked skeptically at this somber companion. "I'd no idea you were a man of literary allusion, Max."
"I'm not a man of literature, Otto." The doctor extinguished his cigarette before stepping out of the car. "I'm a man of will."
Guard dogs produced a volley of ferocious barking as the men stepped from the vehicle, prompting the trio to hesitate at the bottom of the steps. Then a harsh command silenced the animals and a Luftwaffe captain trotted down the granite to greet them. They were escorted into Karinhall's shadowy foyer where sentries briskly checked for weapons. There was no apology. The bomb attempt on Hitler's life the previous summer had tightened security procedures throughout Germany.
"This way, gentlemen," the Luftwaffe captain directed.
The large banquet table was covered by white sheets, suggesting it hadn't been used for some time. Oil paintings and tapestries had been taken down from the walls, leaving ghostly imprints. The pictures were stacked next to wooden crates for shipping to underground safety. All of Germany was burrowing.
The library was less changed, its books no more read now than they'd been six years before. A fire burned and they could see a figure in a high-backed chair, his back to them. "Your guests, Reichsmarschall."
Göring waved over the top of the chair. "Yes, bring them in." He sounded slightly impatient. "Come, come, gentlemen. No ceremony here."
They stood before him. Göring was in a silk dressing gown, one slippered leg up on an ottoman. "The damn gout." He'd aged, his face lined and pale, his eyes sunken, and he appeared to have lost some weight. His presence had shrunk as well; he no longer seemed to automatically dominate the room, let alone an empire. Still, the Reichsmarschall's gaze retained a cold gleam of calculation. He studied his guests with a half smile, taking in the uniforms and the folder under Drexler's arm. "Very military." He gestured to three chairs arranged in a semicircle in front of his own. "Please, please, be seated. Memories of '38, no?"
"I'm honored you remember, sir." Drexler bowed.
"Oh, I remember. How we had to put a lid on the entire affair."
Drexler hesitated. "And now may be the opportune time to unwrap it."
They sat.
"It's good to see you well and safe, Reichsmarschall," Kohl offered.
"Yes, and you too, Otto." He grinned impishly at his old friend. "And what have you brought me this time?"
"Just myself, I'm afraid. I narrowly escaped from France. Just me and my… friends, here. With their interesting proposition."
Göring grunted his acceptance. "Well, you did splendidly in France for as long as you could. This champagne," he said, pointing out the bottle to the two others, "was in a shipment Otto shopped for me. The man has extraordinary taste." An orderly stepped forward and began pouring. They sipped. "Do you agree?"
"Otto has always known how to live," Drexler noted. "Who to know. And how to please them."
"Indeed! And now instead of Impressionist paintings or vintages from Bordeaux, he brings me you two. And I do remember our little mission to the bottom of the world. What an opportunity you had!" He shook his head. "Ah, the promise of that time, now lost. It's tragic, no?"
Hesitantly, his visitors nodded.
"What depresses me about the march of events is that I am at heart a builder, not a destroyer. A builder! What dreams we had of what we would build in our new world! Now I have to hide under that vast damned blanket overhead and bear insults and complaints from oafish idiots like that bunker worm Bormann. Even the Führer mocks me! Well. It wasn't I who decided to take on the entire world at once." He sipped again.
"Do you still believe in victory, Reichsmarschall?" Drexler finally asked.
Göring regarded the SS officer with small, dark eyes. "Of course, Colonel Drexler. My belief in the Führer and his destiny is unshaken. The superweapons, our secret plans. It's only a matter of time. God will not desert us in the end, no?" It was a rote affirmation.
"Perhaps he's already sent us a miracle."
"Really?" Göring drained his glass.
"Yes. Which is why we're here, Reichsmarschall. Why we asked our friend Otto— my father-in-law— to expedite our visit."
"You're related!"
"Yes. I'm married to Otto's daughter, Greta, the woman who accompanied us to Antarctica."
"Ah. I remember her. Lovely girl. I always remember the women!" He barked a laugh, stopping when no one joined him. "Then I heard nothing more. But of course, you'd claimed her and hid her away! Well, here's to happy marriage!"
Drexler smiled thinly and lifted his glass. "Indeed."
Kohl studied the fire.
"And your miracle?"
Drexler leaned forward. "From an unlikely source we suspect we've found a potential key to victory. It's a long shot, I admit, far from assured. But desperate times deserve desperate remedies, no?"
Göring looked skeptical. "Not if they drain away valuable resources."
"One submarine," Drexler said. "One submarine and I— we— can win this war. Or at least force a favorable armistice. But we need your backing to do it, Reichsmarschall. And if we succeed you'll be the leader who saved Germany."
Göring laughed. "You're going to win the war with one boat? It's too bad you didn't join the navy in '39 and save Admiral Dönitz a lot of trouble!"
Drexler smiled. "We only need the U-boat for transport. To return to Antarctica and fetch something potentially powerful enough to reverse our fortunes."
"Ah. You're referring to your microbe again."
"Yes, Reichsmarschall. You remember our discovery. A weapon so powerful, so swift, so deadly, that it will force our enemies to sue for peace. A weapon easy to multiply and easy to deliver in these difficult times."
"But we knew of this weapon in 1939 and didn't return for it. As I recall, it was deemed far too hazardous to fool with. Plus, the war intervened."
"Correct. But circumstances may have changed in our favor." Drexler turned to Schmidt. "Doctor, can you review for the Reichsmarschall exactly what this microbe is capable of."
The Nazi doctor sat straighter at this cue. "First, it appears to be highly contagious, needing no third organism like a rat or a flea or mosquito for transmittal. It develops in the lungs and is spread by coughing, sneezing, even breathing. Second, in its dormant state it's extremely stable. It encases itself in a coating, or shell, that allows it to survive extremes of temperature, humidity— even a disturbance such as the detonation of a shell or bomb. This hardiness makes it easily deliverable. Third, it can kill with unprecedented swiftness. In as little as twelve hours from infection, individuals become incapacitated. Death of virtually one hundred percent of those exposed follows in a couple days. It's far more lethal than the more familiar bubonic or pneumonic plagues or anthrax. In all my years as a doctor I've never seen anything like it."