Karinhall seemed to have crawled under a blanket, hiding from the sky. Its gingerbread rooftops were tented by camouflage netting, the disguise supported by stripped firs and a spiderweb of cables like the rigging of a circus tent. Hermann Goring's aerial armada had been dissipated in a thousand far-flung battles and now the onetime lord of the air had to pretend his castle had sunk into the ground, lest Allied warplanes find it. The lawns around the great house had been torn up by the treads of military vehicles and its trees shaded a protective camp. Antiaircraft guns nested in sandbag emplacements, barrels jutting upward. With this humiliation had come the evaporation of much of the Reichsmarschall's influence in Nazi Germany. Hitler's designated successor was only rarely summoned to councils of war.
As Germany's fortunes worsened, Goring's mind had escaped to a habit of mindless acquisition as distracting as drugs. Accordingly, it wasn't that difficult for one of his mercantile agents, Otto Kohl, to get through to the Reichsmarschall once again. Otto, back from oblivion! The reminder of heady plundering in France! And so the German facilitator once more came to the estate at dusk, Karinhall's lights hidden now behind blackout paper. Drexler and Schmidt shared the rear of the staff car attired in full-dress SS uniforms. Kohl was in a business suit retrieved from his farm outside Berlin, his forehead still bandaged from the scuffle in the air raid shelter. The promise of his eventual escape from Germany was shadowed by fear that Drexler would somehow betray him once they saw Goring. He was trying desperately to guess Jurgen's game, displaying a bluff heartiness he didn't feel.
"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 Gotterdammerung," 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."
Goring 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. Goring 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."
Goring 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 Fuhrer 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.
Goring regarded the SS officer with small, dark eyes. "Of course, Colonel Drexler. My belief in the Fuhrer 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?" Goring 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?"
Goring 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."
Goring 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 Donitz 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."
Goring pursed his lips in consideration and then slowly shook his head. "Which is why trying to harness it would be opening a Pandora's box. When you play with a witches' brew like plague, it can bounce back at you." He nodded significantly at Drexler. "As those mountaineer troops of yours learned too late."
Drexler put up his hand. "Conceded. But I discovered something else on that island, Reichsmarschall. An underground organism which some on the science team speculated might neutralize the microbe's effects."
"How is that significant?"
"Because when opening Pandora's box, one must possess immunity from its effects, as the Spaniards did from the European diseases that destroyed the Aztec and Inca empires."
"Obviously," Goring said impatiently. "So if you found a cure, why didn't you bring it back with you?"
"The expedition was in crisis. Men were dying, the ship in danger. The antibiotic's effectiveness on humans had not been fully demonstrated. After a futile effort to reach the SS squad during which our small supply of the antibiotic was depleted, the cave where the substance was found was blocked by a cave-in. For safety reasons we had to destroy the microbe as well; with the limited containment equipment we had, there was no way to ensure nonexposure. But now- "
"How has anything changed?" Goring said, tired of Drexler's obliqueness.
The SS colonel played his card. "Sir, just two days ago we made a remarkable capture that set our thinking on an entirely new course. Do you remember the American pilot, Owen Hart? He was here, at Karinhall."
"I remember the name, from the reports. Not the face."
"He was one of the mission's casualties- we thought. But it turns out he survived the microbe after all. Not forty-eight hours ago, he made a secret flight to Berlin to contact my wife. Once in custody, he admitted he'd survived the disease after ingesting the antibiotic. He's living proof a cure exists."
Goring frowned, idly twisting one of the rings on his left hand. "Contacted your wife?"
"Yes. You see it's Greta, my wife, who did much of the pioneering work on these discoveries in Antarctica. Hart, now an officer in American Intelligence, was apparently given a mission by his superiors to abduct Greta and force her to use this biology against us. Fortunately, her loyalty to the Reich allowed me to foil such a plot." He glanced sideways at Kohl. The German businessman swallowed and nodded in faint support.
"My point," Drexler went on, "is that we may be in a biological arms race. And the fortuitous arrest of Hart gives us the upper hand. If we could return to Atropos Island, we could collect enough disease spores to culture and grow the microbe. We could also collect the antibiotic organism and begin reproducing that as well. We then destroy the source of both, strike before the Americans, and force an end to the war."
"Your wife will help with this?"
"Of course. Her loyalty to the Reich and myself is beyond question." The other two sat as if made of stone.
Goring folded his hands and rested his chin on them. "Infection, plague- this isn't the kind of war I like to fight. How many millions do you intend to kill?"
"How many tens of millions have already died?" Schmidt responded. "The nation that can force a successful conclusion to this war before the last, greatest battles will have performed a humanitarian deed. We will have saved lives."
Goring tapped his fingers, considering. "This is fraught with difficulties."
"And it seems foolhardy to involve my daughter in this dangerous scheme," Kohl interjected worriedly.
"She's necessary," Drexler said with irritation. "The risk is acceptable to save Germany."
"You want to take your wife with you?" the Reichsmarschall asked. "She'll go?"
"If I explain the need."
"Well. Remarkable woman. Still, Otto is right. This is an extreme gamble."
"At this point it seems a gamble Germany must make."
"Yes." Goring thought, then pointed to a clock. "The key problem, of course, is time."
Schmidt nodded. "Time to get to the island, time to get these organisms, time to mass-produce them. With the Allies pressing, it will be difficult."
"But here, gentlemen, I have information that may make your task less hopeless than it seems." Goring paused, considering, then winked. He enjoyed demonstrating that he still occasionally played a part in the Reich's inner councils. "This is most secret, of course, but Germany is not as finished as the enemy believes. The Fatherland is going to strike back this winter, hitting the Americans and British where they least expect it. The Fuhrer is confident this will bring victory. I'm less so but am confident our offensive will prolong the war. Enough perhaps to enable you to deliver us some kind of a miracle." He pondered. "This will require just a single submarine?"
"To win the war," Drexler promised. "When we return we'll need biological facilities to mass-produce both the disease and its antidote. A laboratory- perhaps located in a mine- should suffice. Germs are far cheaper than tanks or airplanes."
Goring laughed. "Our mines are getting crowded, so much has been moved there! Still, it would be nice to be in control of events again. Well." He seemed to have regained some of his old energy. He boosted himself to his feet, grunting a bit in pain. "Let's discuss the details of this further over dinner, Jurgen. I agree with Otto that the odds are stacked against us, but the idea of having an option of last resort intrigues me. We'll determine if this is truly feasible and you can tell me more about Antarctica."
"I'd be delighted, Reichsmarschall."
"Open it."
Drexler stood before the steel door in immaculate uniform, his jackboots shining and his pistol freshly oiled. With a clank the steel door was unlocked and hauled open by a thick, brutish SS guard, his arms roped with muscle and his head jutting forward. An animal set to guard animals. Drexler stepped through, the guard throwing on the light from an outside switch.
Greta jerked awake. She was on a bunk, huddled for warmth. The cell was otherwise bare except for a steel bucket. Drexler carried in a camp chair and sat. "Hello, Greta."
She sat up, blinking in the harsh light. She looked disheveled, exhausted, and very small. It was painful to see her in such surroundings. Humiliating. Yet it's necessary, he reminded himself. Necessary for her to understand how desperate their situation really was. Show no emotion, Drexler told himself. Feel no emotion. Every time you've surrendered to your heart, you've regretted it. Still, he found it difficult to begin.
It was Greta who finally spoke. "So, you've come to look? Does this please you? What you've done to keep me in Germany?"
Her sarcasm shattered his hesitation. It was he who was in control. "Do you think I enjoy seeing you like this? My wife jailed for trying to run away with an American Intelligence officer? The Gestapo is actually becoming suspicious you may have revealed key information to the enemy. I've spent all my political capital keeping this arrest quiet to protect both our reputations. Your impulsive selfishness has nearly destroyed me, Greta. Ruined me."
"All I wanted was to be let go."
"You know the Reich can't do that. The only debate your keepers have is how slowly you both should die. This is the reality of war, Greta: this cell is your situation without my protection, without my fine home, without my life and career and connections. Wake up! Because what can happen in a place like this is indescribable. All that stands between you and that is me."
She closed her eyes. "Where's Owen?"
"Waiting for your decision. Waiting for you to rescue him."
"What decision?"
"I ask you to look at your situation." He leaned toward her. "An American Intelligence officer in the heart of Berlin. A spy, by any nation's definition. A German woman consorting with him. Both of you could be shot, certainly. In fact, I've been working very hard to keep you from being shot."
"It would be a relief to have it over."
"I'm sorry to hear you say that. For Hart, though, it won't go so quickly. The Gestapo will have questions for an American spy. Inquiries that will take days to complete. By the end, he'll be begging for a bullet."
She looked him up and down, as if seeing him for the first time. "You came here to tell me this?"
"No, of course not. I am your husband, Greta. Our relationship has of course changed: I'm hurt, I'm angry. But despite your betrayal I still came here to help you. So you can help me."
She looked wary.
"I need your help, Greta." He nodded solemnly. "Germany needs your help. No, I don't want to see you dead. I might like to kill Hart but I can't afford to see him dead either. Because somehow he found his way out of that sealed cave, which means he can find a way back in. Accordingly, I want to offer you both a chance at redemption. A chance for us to work together again for a common good."
"What chance?" Her tone was skeptical.
"To return to Antarctica."
She had a sharp intake of breath. "No! That's where all this started!"
"To develop your cure, Greta. I didn't think it a real possibility until I saw Hart. And the need was not entirely apparent to me when we first visited Atropos Island. But the war has brought it home. What if we had a new antibiotic? It would make all the difference in our hospitals."
"Jurgen, there's a war on! We can't get back to Antarctica."
"But we can. On a submarine. The Reich is willing to make one available."
"But the time, it's so late in the war…"
"This war may go on longer than you think."
Her eyes became skeptical. "No. You're going for the microbe."
He shook his head, considering his words carefully. "I'm afraid Dr. Schmidt was one step ahead of both of us, Greta." He kept his gaze dead level with hers, trying to communicate the utmost sincerity. "I assumed all the cultures were destroyed, as you said, but it turns out Schmidt quietly created some of his own cultures, borrowing from your dishes."
"What?"
"He brought the disease back to Germany and it's been tested in the camps," Drexler lied. "The Reich is desperate, and may be forced to use it. All this came as a complete shock to me. Goring shares my fear but there is growing pressure coming from the Fuhrer's headquarters: Bormann, maybe other advisors, I don't know. So the Reichsmarschall wants us to return to Antarctica to get an antidote as a safety valve. To get your antibiotic. To save lives, not take them." He watched her closely to see if she saw through him.
"You just want the drug?"
"Yes."
She looked confused, tired, hopeful. "If I helped you'd let Owen live?"
"I need Hart, to help get us back into the cave quickly. I can't risk the chance he'd lie in directing us on such a dangerous trip: I need him there to show us. And I need you to persuade him. I need you to help gather and culture the compound. I need you both. Just as you now need me. A partnership."
She shook her head in wonder. "The three of us returning again?"
"Greta, we're all in desperate straits. Do you think this is what I want, you in a prison cell? That's no victory. But Hart's appearance perversely means we can do something together to produce a good in this war. In partnership with my wife, even if she no longer loves me. We've all made mistakes, Greta, great and terrible and bitter ones. And I thought Hart's return was the worst mistake of all. Then I realized he's a sign of new opportunity, a chance to try again. It's late, very late. But not too late, perhaps."
"Jurgen…" It was a groan as she tried to sort out his motive.
He took a breath. "The war will end someday, in victory or defeat or stalemate: who knows? And then there'll be an accounting of what was done on all sides. I want that accounting to include a miracle new drug. A drug that we discovered. This is our chance to salvage something from catastrophe, Greta, regardless of what happens between you and me. Something that will be remembered in the postwar world. So come with me to Antarctica to do the expedition over, more completely this time. To correct the mistakes of the past. To succeed instead of fail."
"And afterward? You and me and Owen?"
"Your heart is your own. I've learned that. To be honest, I still hope to change your mind. But go where you will, with him if you must. My mission is for Germany. Do it and we'll all be saved."
She closed her eyes. "What do I have to do?"
"Convince him, Greta. Convince him he must cooperate."
"To save his life?"
"To save his. To save your father's. And to save yours."
She looked at her husband, her eyes sad, contemplating a return to the island. Finally she nodded. "I'll talk to him."