Ice Reich (4 page)

"Well, the Reich Minister is a great man," Kohl grumped, somehow annoyed by this lighthearted affection he clearly deemed inappropriate. "Second only to Hitler. He runs not only the Luftwaffe but the Prussian Interior Ministry, the Forestry Commission, and the Hunt. He's President of the Reichstag and founded the Gestapo. A truly superhuman energy."

"They say he draws six salaries." Leni winked.

Kohl chose to ignore this gossip. "It's too bad about the wound he suffered at the Munich Putsch. The reliance on pain relievers. Hart, don't let the burdens that the Reich Minister shoulders deflect your honor to him. Your presence on this voyage as a foreigner is important to its image but sensitive. I've been working hard to assure the authorities you'll not be a problem. Göring is key. You must be certain to satisfy him. Keep your curiosity within limits. Be ready to do as instructed. Restrain your American... casualness."

"Oh, Otto," Leni scolded with a grin. "I think Mr. Hart will muster the proper respect."

Hart had only seen Göring in newsreels and thought the man looked clownish, but he kept that opinion to himself. "I'll do my best," he told Kohl, determined to be polite but not a toady. He was irritated that the German was treating him like a rube in front of the woman. "He'll have to take me as I am."

Leni nodded. "Good for you! That's the kind of attitude Hermann enjoys!"

The car raced through the suburbs, the trim German homes getting larger and farther apart as they journeyed into the forest surrounding the city. It seemed to Hart that all of Germany was like a model railroad: too tidy to be a place people really lived in. Litter was absent, cars were washed, and the forest itself seemed groomed, its floor picked clean of branches and leaf litter. He had a sense of having entered onto a stage set, and the company of a movie star reinforced the notion. She drew Kohl into gossiping about Nazis whom Hart had never heard of. He half listened, watching the scenery.

It took nearly an hour to reach the gates of Göring's estate. An unmarked road departed from the main highway and the car turned down the oak-shaded lane. Then it slowed to weave around concrete pylons and approach a guard station. A white-painted pole blocked the road and gray-uniformed soldiers with strapped submachine guns dangling from their necks sauntered out as the limousine came to a halt. They barely glanced at the driver, clearly recognizing him, but they peered inside intently— first to Kohl, then Hart, and then with appreciation to Miss Stauffenberg. "Papers, please!" a handsome lieutenant barked, keeping his eyes on the actress. She ignored him.

The guards studied their passes as if this was the first time they'd seen writing. Then, with elaborate slowness, they handed them back. "American," the lieutenant remarked. The wings on his uniform showed him to be a member of the Luftwaffe, the German air arm that Göring had reportedly made into the most powerful in the world. "New York, perhaps?"

"Alaska," Hart replied.

"Ah, yes." Clearly the place didn't register. "Soon we'll have planes that reach New York. Perhaps I'll see it one day, from the air." His smile was cold.

"Mr. Hart is an employee of the German government!" Kohl snapped with unmistakable authority.

The lieutenant stiffened. "Of course. You are free to proceed! Heil Hitler!" He snapped his salute.

"Heil Hitler," Kohl grunted, dismissing the sentry. The pole was raised and the limousine jumped forward.

Göring's estate was a vast park of forest, lake, and meadow, the car following a winding drive to a final vast lawn. Its crown was Karinhall, a feudal half-timbered château modeled on a rural retreat of Göring's former in-laws in Sweden: an edifice of leaded glass and soaring towers and steep, slate-gray roofs. It reminded Hart of a gingerbread fantasy.

"Where's Hansel and Gretel?" he murmured, both impressed and uneasy at this proximity to power.

Kohl gave him a warning glance. Leni smiled slightly.

The light was quickly fading from the brief November day and the mansion's windows glowed a welcoming yellow. Two more guards, these in black uniforms, flanked a massive oaken door. A German shepherd stood alertly as the limo pulled up but did not growl or bark.

An orderly trotted officiously down the stone stairs to meet them, moving to Leni's door first. She took his arm, stood expertly in her heels in the pea gravel, and then ascended the steps as if floating, the silk of her dress lightly kissing stone. How does she do that? Hart wondered, following. The massive entryway seemed to open of its own accord and then they were in a large flagstone foyer hung with medieval tapestries. Two suits of black armor stood guard. There were no swastikas or Nazi regalia in sight.

"Welcome to Karinhall," the orderly said. "Mr. Kohl." He gave a nod of acknowledgment. "So good to have you with us again, Miss Stauffenberg." A smile this time. Then, more appraising: "And yes, Mr. Hart. The Reich Minister is of course especially fond of pilots. You're actually the
second
American pilot to visit. You know of Mr. Lindbergh?"

"I know of him," Hart replied dryly. Was there anyone in the flying profession who didn't?

"A great man," the orderly enthused. "A great man."

Servants materialized to take their coats and then they moved to the Great Hall, a soaring, timbered cathedral of a room. Its walls were studded with game heads, a fire roared in a vast fireplace, and a table as long as a bowling alley occupied its center. The feeling of a stage set was sustained, as if Karinhall was designed not just as a home but as a kind of artificial realm, trying to couple Germanic charm with overbearing power. For Hart the power was there but the charm was not.

"Clearly, Herr Göring's politics have paid off," he noted mildly, his head rotating back to eye the timbered ceiling.

"The Reich Minister stood by the Führer in the dark days after the Putsch," Kohl said. "He went broke trying to represent the party while Hitler was in prison. He's exhibited the economic vision to remake Germany. Vision enough to reach all the way to the bottom of the world."

"A great man," Hart said, trying to estimate the length of the table. Fifty feet? It was bizarre to find himself here after Anaktuvuk Pass.

Suddenly, unannounced, a figure strode through the doorway. Not just a man but a presence. Göring was big, for one thing, almost decadently fat, and his girth was clothed in a snow-white uniform with gold epaulets at the shoulders and buttons and braid accenting them below. The belt was black and its buckle silver, a Nazi eagle at rigid attention in gold relief. The clothes were ornate but to Hart he looked faintly ridiculous, like a New York doorman. It was certainly disconcerting that instead of jackboots the Reich Minister wore slippers lined with fur. His complexion was healthy but too pink at the cheeks, as if he used rouge, and the fat of his jowls softened the military bearing. Yet Göring's air of authority remained unmistakable. There was a sense of arrogant proprietorship. The habit of command.

"Gentlemen, Leni!" Göring reached out with fingers that were short and fat and studded with rings. Kohl shook and then Hart followed, surprised by a pumping grip both energetic and soft. There was a slight sense of decay in the touch and yet Göring's eyes were iron-hard, black and judging— quite disconcerting, really. The entire effect was strange, and despite his determination not to seem obsequious, Hart felt off balance.

"So this is our American expert on Antarctica. A fellow flier! I must tell you, Hart, the only pure place is in the air."

"Yes, Reich Minister," Hart managed. "I share your enthusiasm. The air, and perhaps Antarctica."

"Ah really?" Göring looked genuinely interested. "And what is so pure about the southern continent?"

"Well..." Hart thought for a moment. "The ice, of course, is as white as your uniform. No, not just white but... prismatic. The colors are unworldly. And the air is clearer there. You can see to infinity."

"Ah, infinity." Göring laughed appreciatively. "I think I saw that a few times from my biplane in the war, looking over my shoulder into the barrel of an enemy machine gun. I'm not sure I'd like to see so much infinity again." Hart found himself joining the others in complimentary laughter, a solar system in orbit around its fat white sun. "But then the kind of purity you talk of, Hart— the sublime cleanliness of a place never before trod by man— that, that must be remarkable."

"It can be inspiring or frightening," Hart said without thinking, instantly feeling he'd betrayed himself.

"So I understand." Suddenly Göring's softness seemed to stiffen and his eyes bored into the pilot's as if taking Hart's measure. Owen forced himself to stare calmly back. "My pilots, the men I recruit, are not easily frightened."

"No, they're not, Herr Göring." You Germans were dogged enough to search me out in Alaska and paid to bring me here, he thought. If you don't want me now, then to hell with you.

The German held his gaze for a moment more and then abruptly smiled. The appraisal was done. "Good! You know, Hart, that's the name of the stag, a name that originally comes from the German word for 'horn'—and so I approve of your ancestry as well! Just like Lindbergh! We Germans are all pioneers of the air. Now come, come, into my library. You must meet your fellow adventurers."

The library was the size of a small hangar, its gold-lettered books ranked as neatly as soldiers. Most looked new and completely unread: this was a room to impress, not to work in. A fire burned here as well. Clustered around a side table were four men and a woman, sipping wine. Their evident leader— the captain, Hart guessed— wore his Prussian aura of command on weathered features, his steel-gray hair close-cropped and his goatee trimmed with precision. Next to him was a tall, blond, Nordic man of about Hart's age who looked like he'd stepped from a Nazi recruiting poster. And a shorter, more officious-looking fellow with a mustache and gold wire-rimmed glasses. The oldest, at least in appearance, was a balding, somewhat cadaverous male with thin lips, yellowed teeth, and long, tobacco-stained fingers. He was smoking a cigarette. The woman Hart studied for a moment longer. She was about Leni Stauffenberg's age but did not pretend to the actress's ostentatious beauty. Her dark red hair was cut just below her shoulders, flipped slightly inward in a simple style, and she wore a modestly cut print dress and low heels. She appeared to wear no makeup and seemed to have no need of it. Her skin was clear and her blue eyes bright and intelligent.

"Captain Heiden!" Göring greeted the Prussian. "Let me present to you one of our country's representatives in America, Otto Kohl, our American consultant Owen Hart, and of course our own beautiful Leni Stauffenberg— even more stunning," and here the Reich Minister grinned like a playboy, "in the flesh than on the screen. Who would have thought it possible?"

Heiden bowed with Prussian formality and took the actress's gloved hand, kissing it lightly. Then he turned and gave a shorter bow to Hart. "So good of you to agree to accompany us, Mr. Hart," he said. "I'm Konrad Heiden, captain of the
Schwabenland
, the seaplane tender that will take us to Antarctica. Your experience in polar flying should prove invaluable. Let me introduce our political liaison, Jürgen Drexler"—the handsome blond gave a nod— "our chief geographer, Alfred Feder"—here the shorter man bobbed his head a bit shyly— "ship's doctor Maximilian Schmidt"—the smoker smiled remotely behind a cloud of exhaled smoke— "and Greta Heinz, our polar biologist." The woman smiled and looked at Hart with interest, keeping one hand on the stem of her wineglass and the other at her wrist, as if the goblet needed special support. She glanced quickly at Leni and then away, shy of the movie star's polish, and seemed to avoid even incidental eye contact with Kohl. Almost imperceptibly Drexler sidled an inch closer, as if to suggest a relationship. She gave no sign she noticed. She was attractive, Hart decided: not so much glamorous as interesting.

"Glad to meet you," Hart said. "It should be an intriguing adventure."

"Captain Heiden has had experience in the Arctic but this will be Germany's first great thrust toward the South Pole," Göring said. "We've had explorers there before— Erich von Drygalski even rose in a balloon just after the turn of the century, becoming the first Antarctic aeronaut— but the effort wasn't sustained. This time we're being systematic about it: we're staking our claim and planning to do Antarctic research. The expedition will have geopolitical implications as well." Göring turned toward the others. "And Mr. Hart has been assuring me about the beauty of the place. How I wish I could accompany you, to escape the cares of my office!"

"But Hermann, Germany would miss you so much!" Leni exclaimed, as if she thought Göring was really going to slip away to sea. She leaned toward him and grasped his arm.

"And I would miss Germany!" the Reich Minister said, beaming. The others smiled at this banter.

"So, Hart, I assume you didn't fly in the war," Drexler said, clearly sizing him up. The German was slim, athletic, and even in repose seemed to have the grace of a cat.

"I don't look
that
old, I hope," Hart replied.

"Ah!" Göring cried. "The unintended insults of arrogant youth." The group laughed.

"I did some flying on the barnstormer circuit," Hart said, "then flew in competition and in the Rockies, learning cold weather skills. Hired on with Elliott Farnsworth. And was fired when I wouldn't fly him into bad weather."

"Sometimes heroism must be put in abeyance," Drexler observed.

Unsure of what to make of that remark, the pilot turned to the geographer. "Alfred, do you know exactly where on the continent we're going?"

"I do," the man said with a certain self-satisfaction. "And the rest of you shall know when we get there."

There was an awkward pause and then Göring laughed explosively, drawing the others in. "Ha!" he crowed. "The white part, Hart! You're going to the cold part!" He laughed some more, patting Feder on the back. "I do like a man who can keep a secret."

Hart smiled, mystified by any secrecy.