STAG LAY IN bed in the pre-dawn light, listening to the breathing next to him. He’d had his final nightmare of Holly. He’d hit the wall. There was no more in him to dream after that last one.
The image of Holly burned in his psyche. She was lying in a deep pool of spreading red. The green, twin-tailed Starbucks siren smiled above her, luring her to her death, and luring all the rest of them into madness.
Last night he’d relived every final moment. There were no poignant last words, no declarations of undying love. Instead, all she’d whimpered was, “Please, God, I need some water. I’ve got to have some water.” She repeated these words, blind to him, blind to her wounds, blind even to her dying, until she slipped away and her hand ceased its grip on his.
He didn’t know it at the time, but when you bleed to death, your body and mind become obsessed with a search for liquids. It was not uncommon to find crime scenes slathered in blood with the inexplicable blood-smeared plastic gallon of milk sitting out on the counter. In death throes, the victim had gone to the refrigerator before calling 911.
There were many things he learned that day. Now he wondered if he was finally going to put his grief and horror over Holly aside, only to immerse himself with a new one.
He rose quietly, unsure whether she was awake or not. Last night opened questions he couldn’t answer. But now he had to head to Kehlsteinhaus. All other questions would have to wait.
He and Jake met in the lobby. They reached Kehlsteinhaus from the Dokumentation Obersalzberg. The center was described as a place of guided learning and remembrance, to reflect on the National Socialist past. Tourists could drench themselves in photos of Hitler’s long demolished complex of the Berghof, then ride up to the Eagle’s Nest, and have a bratwurst and a tour. It was to be noted that the only tours available were those booked through the Documentation Center. No private tours were allowed. The Bavarian government maintained scrupulous protection against those who would be attracted to the place, such as Nazi-sympathizers and Neo-Nazis.
Waiting for the bus that would take them up the mountain, Stag read about the history of the area. He thought it served as an ominous foreboding:
According to legend, Emperor Frederick Barbarossa is asleep inside Mt. Untersberg until his resurrection. His beard is said to be growing longer and longer around a round table and to have grown round two times. Myth says that when the beard has grown three times around the table the end of the world has come.
When he and Jake stepped up to the bus to drive the hairpin turn of the road to the Eagle’s Nest, both men were silent and grim, a foil to the strange atmosphere of happy, tacky tourists on holiday.
They arrived and stood in line for their turn at the elevator, the first real vestige of luxe National Socialism left in the complex. The elevator was accessed through a tunnel. The elevator was fitted with polished brass walls, Venetian mirrors, and green leather. A jarring contrast to the stone mountains all around.
As the elevator rose, Jake looked at him in the mirror-like wall. Stag met his gaze. Every nerve was on edge. In truth, Stag couldn’t wait to hand over the information to Interpol. He wanted it off his conscience.
The doors opened to a sparsely-filled restaurant. The building had spectacular views of the surrounding peaks and valleys. Walking through it, Stag could even see the Königssee and the mountain where the Angel of Death lay.
They found Troost through a set of double doors. Walking down a few steps, Stag took note of the plaque. The Eva Braun Room.
“Mr. Maguire.” Troost stood. He was alone in the room. “This is a strange meeting place. I certainly hope you have some information for me!”
He made the introduction to Jake.
“What have you got for me, eh? Have you seen Ms. Aradi?”
Along with Jake, Stag began the long, strange story of how they’d come to the Königssee in search of a bomb and how they were pretty sure they’d now found one. When he was through, he took Troost out the door to the old Sun Terrace. It was now enclosed with windows, so Stag wiped at one to get the clearest view. In the distance, the Königssee could be seen snaking through the mountains. He pointed out the peak over the lake where they believed the bomb lay.
“This is most incredible,” Troost exclaimed, his face taking on lines with every new revelation.
“Yes. I think we need NATO or the German government to get here as soon as possible. We’re very worried this might fall into the wrong hands,” Jake said, the sound of a distant helicopter wafting in with the breeze.
Troost nodded soberly, then he began punching into his phone.
At that moment, Stag’s own phone began to vibrate. Since Jake was standing next to him, he couldn’t understand it. No one else knew the number.
But then, he remembered what he’d done last night. It wasn’t a big leap to imagine a woman going through a man’s things to take a look at his cell phone.
“Fuck,” he said under his breath. It wasn’t time to give in to loneliness and sex. It was time to save the fucking world. But human frailty won out again.
He dug his phone out. The helicopter grew louder.
Google HEYDRICH GET OUT!!!
He looked down at the text highlighted on his screen and his insides lurched. He eyed Troost who was still busy tapping into his phone. Nervously, Stag gave Jake a warning glance. While Troost was distracted, Stag went to Safari and punched in HEYDRICH.
He didn’t even get to the Wikipedia page. He didn’t have to. On the first page of the listings, in small print, he picked out the words.
President of the ICPC (now known as Interpol)
Stag slowly lowered his phone to show Jake.
Jake tapped on the first entry, a Modern Motion article by Gilead Amit:
From 1938 to 1945, Interpol, or the International Criminal Police Commission, as it was then known, became little more than an extension of the Nazi state; the organization whose sole mission is to make the world safer, ruled from Berlin and was presided over by the very men responsible for planning and implementing the Holocaust.
Although speculation is rife concerning the extent to which different countries collaborated with Interpol during the war, it is hard to know anything for certain … the little anecdotal evidence that survives, however, is chilling enough … the United States continued to exchange information with Interpol until just three days before Pearl Harbor, and as late as 1943, the ostensibly neutral Swiss government was still paying its annual subscription ….
Following the end of the war—and Interpol President Kaltenbrunner’s execution at Nuremberg on the charge of Crimes against Humanity—Interpol turned its back on its past and began a slow and shaky journey towards rehabilitation.
Stag could hear the helicopter getting closer and louder. What seemed a benign background noise now seemed to grow into the fury of a monster.
“Give me the phone, Troost,” Stag said evenly, taking out the P-83 and pointing it toward Troost.
“What is this all about?” Troost said, clearly unfazed by having the gun pointed at him.
“Give me the phone.” Stag grabbed it and handed it to Jake. He also dug out the number on the card that the black man had given to Harry before killing him. “Is this text to Switzerland?” he asked, hoping Jake could match the country code.
Jake’s hands began to shake. “It’s not just Switzerland, it’s the same number.”
Stag itched to pull the trigger on Troost.
“They know everything, Stag. Troost texted them. They know where it is.” Jake’s voice cracked.
The helicopter landed in a patch of thinning snow just up the mountain. Interpol men dressed like commandos began to stream out.
All they needed was a Tarnhelm badge on their shirtfronts, Stag thought.
“It’s useless. Put down the gun,” Troost said, nodding to the commandos who jogged toward the Eagle’s Nest. Cries could be heard in the main dining room as people grew alarmed at the invasion.
“They’re earlier than I’d hoped,” Troost said.
You never hear the shot that kills you, Stag thought as Troost took the P-83 from his clutch.
“You still don’t have the diary or my other evidence connecting Tarnhelm with that bomb and with the SD,” Stag said to Troost who motioned them to the corner of the Sun Terrace. “That bomb is useless without us. Anything happens to us, the diary and all my other evidence goes to the authorities.”
“Mr. Portier will decide what chances to take,” Troost explained. “All I’m here to do is take my payment and retire to … where should I go … St. Kitts? The Seychelles? Whereever, just someplace warm and far away.”
“That bomb’s going to kill a lot of people,” Jake implored.
“Yes,” Troost agreed. “And were I a supervillain I might laugh right now, but I’m not. I feel bad about it. But it’s them or me. I’m sick to death of it being me.”
“How will you enjoy that island in nuclear winter?” Stag spat.
“There’s no nuclear winter. Tarnhelm has assured me they’ll be managing the entire episode. No one will know who acquired this bomb so there will be no retaliation. Which makes it much more valuable.”
“You still need my evidence, and without my cooperation it goes out to every newspaper in the world. They’ll know who ultimately got the bomb,” Stag said.
“You have some value, Mr. Maguire, I don’t deny that. But alas, your companion does not. As always, I’ve been sent to clean up the situation. I’ve been instructed to take out the collateral.” He pointed the P-83 at Jake. The older man raised his shaking hands, unsure of what to do next. “Tell me,” he asked him, “do you know the painting by David? The Death of Marat?”
Jake looked confused. He was about to answer, but there was no chance. Without warning, Troost put a bullet in his brain.
Stag screamed in outrage. Jake fell to the floor, DOA, the back of his head blown out.
“I’ll fucking kill you!” Stag shouted. He rushed Troost and the P-83, numb to the consequences, on fire from his anger.
But this time, he did hear the shot, and it didn’t kill him. Wrangling with Troost, the gun went off, the bullet burning the side of his skull. In a blind rage, he kept fighting, irrationally numb, until another shot rang out.
Troost fell backwards, a clean black hole through his forehead. Stunned, it took a moment for Stag to look behind him.
Angelika Aradi stood in the doorway to the Eva Braun Room, the Walther in her hand, the Interpol Security Police commandos streaming from either side onto the Sun Terrace.
As if on automatic, he raised a hand to the side of his head. Blood covered his hand; his head felt like a hot poker had been taken to it.
Then he fell to the floor. Blacked out.