The Black Gate (2 page)

Connelly frowned. “The
Ahnenerbe?
Never heard of it.”

“Most haven’t,” Peter told him. “The
Ahnenerbe
is an institute founded in 1935 by Heinrich Himmler and two others, Herman Wirth and Richard Darré, to study the archeological and cultural history of the Aryan race.”

“What, to try and justify the whole Nazi Aryan superman mumbo-jumbo?”

“In short, yes,” Peter agreed. “More specifically, the institute’s mission was to try and prove that the world had been ruled at some time in the ancient past by Nordic peoples using a bit of a cocktail blend of science and Norse mythology. Starting in 1936, the institute actually funded a number of expeditions to places as far away as Tibet to gather evidence.” He shrugged. “I don’t think they actually found anything to support Nazi ancestral claims, but it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying. And who knows what they’ve been doing since the war started?” He waved at the reports Connelly had brought him. “Again, though, I don’t understand why the
Ahnenerbe
would have anything to do with something like this.”

“Well, setting aside the Norse mythology for the moment, do you have any idea what the Black Gate is about?”

His face scrunching into an unhappy pucker, Peter shook his head. “Not a clue, except that it was using a tremendous amount of electrical power.” He pulled out his summary sheet and handed it to Connelly. “One of the agent reports indicated that as much as half of the total hydroelectric output of the Ruhr dams was being used by the Black Gate. Not continuously, mind you, but for brief intervals, like a huge light bulb being switched on and off again. I wasn’t able to corroborate or refute the information, but the other data we’ve received from that particular source on industrial output in the Ruhr has been highly accurate and reliable.”

“So you’re inclined to believe it?” Connelly asked.
 

Peter shrugged. “I’m not sure I’d go that far, but I’m certainly not inclined to discount it.”

“Fair enough. Now take a look at the other sheet in the folder. It’s from a new source we tied into through the German Resistance, so we don’t have anything to go on in terms of credibility or accuracy. Not yet, at least.”

Peter set his own file folder aside to again expose the one Connelly had brought. Setting aside the ULTRA report, he found a slightly longer report from an agent designated Garbo. “Assistant scientist of Black Gate project killed,” he read aloud as he scanned the text. “Project Director P. v. Falkenstein seeking replacement. Background in high energy physics and electrical engineering required, familiarity with occult subjects highly desirable. Project in final test phase at Arnsberg. Full operation to commence in three weeks. Urgent that underground facility be destroyed.” The text was followed with a set of coordinates. He looked at the date of the report, his face turning down in a scowl. “This just came in this morning. You know, you keep telling me this isn’t a joke, but I’m finding that harder and harder to believe. Give up on the joke now and I won’t tell anyone it was a flop.”

The smile had vanished from Connelly’s face. “And as I keep telling you, Peter, it’s not a joke at all. I wish it were. Do you know who this von Falkenstein fellow is?”

“
Herr Professor
Phillip von Falkenstein,” Peter said with a nod. “Yes, he’s a German physicist, a contemporary of Werner Heisenberg, who himself is their leading nuclear physicist. Heisenberg is, oh, roughly the German equivalent of Robert Oppenheimer. Very capable and well-respected. Von Falkenstein…” Peter shrugged. “Well, he’s something altogether different. Before the war, some compared his brilliance to that of Albert Einstein, but he had what you might call morally questionable views that didn’t make him any friends among his more ethics-bound peers, and he was a very active member of the Nazi party. Positively rabid, in fact. I don’t keep up on those things as much as I used to, but I followed information on von Falkenstein fairly religiously before the war, and even attended one of his lectures in Berlin back in 1938 while I was on exchange to Heidelberg University. In fact, that lecture led directly to his being ostracized from the mainstream scientific community, not just in Germany, but everywhere. He became a pariah overnight.”

“Why is that?”

Peter laughed. “Well, the man was trying to make the scientific case that Heaven and Hell are real, not just in a spiritual sense, but as coherent regions in space-time. He theorized that we can actually visit them, and return, through an Einstein-Rosen Bridge.”

Connelly cocked his head. “A what?”

“An Einstein-Rosen Bridge. It’s a theory that Albert Einstein and Nathan Rosen came up with at Princeton,” Peter explained. “In a nutshell, an Einstein-Rosen Bridge, which some have also called a wormhole, would allow you to travel from one location in space-time to another. You could travel next door, I suppose, or to the other end of the universe. You might even be able to travel to another universe altogether, all in the blink of an eye, without using a rocket or any other sort of craft.” He shrugged. “In theory, of course.” He drew on his pipe, then blew a smoke ring. “Don’t get me wrong. Von Falkenstein was a fascinating man, quite possibly as brilliant as some made him out to be, but he was nuttier than a fruitcake, well beyond the eccentricity often expected from brilliant academics. After the 1938 lecture he was publicly humiliated by his peers and fell out of public view.” He tapped the agent report. “Until now.”
 

“Let’s set the fruitcake business aside for now and look at what we have in hand,” Connelly told him, ticking items off on his fingers. “We have a project under the auspices of the SS that is of personal interest to Himmler himself, and no doubt to Hitler. The show is being run by a physicist who might be as brilliant as Einstein, but who fully embraces Nazi doctrine. Whatever the project is, or whatever it does, apparently requires a tremendous amount of electricity when it’s switched on. And the project is moving from its test phase to operational use in three weeks.”

“That about covers it,” Peter said, growing uncomfortable under Connelly’s gaze. “That does all sound a bit ominous, I suppose.”

“Ominous enough that in two hours it will be briefed to the president. Several men with lots of stars on their shoulders are already worried about this, and soon FDR will be, too.”

Peter shot to his feet. “What?”

“You heard me. I came here straight from General Donovan’s office. He’s been in touch with the brass in the Pentagon, who are up in arms about this thing. Peter, just think: what if the Germans take whatever they’re coming up with at Arnsberg and stick it on top of a V-2 rocket? London is being hit by dozens of those damnable things every month. Unlike the V-1s, which can be intercepted by fighters, V-2s are impossible to stop until our troops can capture their launch sites. The explosive warheads are bad enough, but what happens if they arm their rockets with something even more dreadful? What if it could even reach here?”
 

Peter crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “The project can’t pose a threat if you bomb it to ashes. Just have 8
^th
Air Force or the RAF mount a raid and flatten Arnsberg.”

Connelly shook his head. “We’d do just that, except for one little problem. We can’t find the facility. The agent reporting says the project is there, but we can’t find a thing on the reconnaissance photos. The coordinates Garbo gave us seem to be for the viaduct, which doesn’t make any sense. Even if the bloody thing is underground, there should be some signs on the surface. But a dozen photo interpreters have gone over every inch of that area and come up with a big goose egg. Arnsberg looks like nothing more than a quaint little German town along the Ruhr River.” He stood up and leaned over Peter’s desk. “We’re missing something, we just don’t know what. Donovan sees an opportunity here for the OSS to take the lead on this. We want to get someone on the inside who can assess the nature of the threat and, if it’s real, throw a monkey wrench in the works to keep it from going operational.”

“But…” Peter paused. “But that means you already knew everything that I just told you!”

“Yes and no. The Secret Intelligence Branch already put together some pieces of the puzzle, but they didn’t do half as good a job as you just did, and none of them knew anything about von Falkenstein other than he was a physicist.”
 

“But if you already knew, then why bother me with it?” Connelly just stared at him. Then Peter recalled what Connelly had said.
We want to get someone on the inside…
“Oh, no. You seriously can’t be thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

One corner of Connelly’s mouth turned up in a half-grin. “I didn’t exactly volunteer you, but I might have accidentally mentioned your name when I spoke with Donovan.” He put his fists on Peter’s desk. “You’re the perfect man for the job.”

“What, as a replacement for the project assistant who was killed? Are you insane? I wouldn’t last five minutes!”

“Come on, Peter,” Connelly told him. “Give yourself some credit. Your parents are German immigrants, and you not only speak German like a native but you’ve spent time in-country before the war, so you’re familiar with the culture. While you’re not quite tall enough for the perfect Aryan super-soldier, with that strong jaw combined with your blue eyes and blond hair your face would look right at home on an SS recruiting poster. You’ve got a background in physics and electrical engineering, and I know that half your library at home is on occult topics.” Peter opened his mouth, but Connelly waved him to silence. “Don’t even try to deny that last bit, because I’ve seen those books with my own eyes when you had me over for dinner that time, remember?” He paused, his eyes fixed on Peter’s. “Be honest: who else would have a better chance of assessing the threat than you, and figuring out a way to stop it if there’s something to all this?”

“I think you’re forgetting something.” Holding on to the back of his chair for support, Peter lifted his right foot up onto the desk, letting it fall with a heavy
thunk
. A metal brace that helped support his leg was attached to the shoe, disappearing up his pant leg to where it was strapped onto his calf and thigh. “I’m hardly a candidate for field work.”

“I don’t mean to rub salt in the wound,” Connelly told him, “but that leg of yours might actually be an advantage. Given your other aforementioned talents, no one would ever suspect we would send in an agent with a gimp. In fact, it could easily be passed off as a war wound which,” he added hastily, “it is, after a fashion.”

Peter grabbed his leg and hauled it off the desk, letting his foot thump back down to the floor. “So you’d drop a cripple into Germany by parachute to spy on a highly classified project run by the bloody SS?” He shook his head. “You’re as loopy as von Falkenstein. And what about my work at Bletchley Park? Did Donovan take that into account? What if I’m captured and the Germans torture me for what I know about ULTRA?”

“Frankly, that was Donovan’s biggest concern. But the he and everyone else who’s seen this is even more concerned about the Germans pulling some sort of ace out of their sleeve that no one saw coming, some sort of wonder weapon that will prolong the war, or even let the Germans win.” Connelly stepped back from Peter’s desk before moving to the window. “What you’ve done for the war effort has been extremely valuable, Peter, much more so than you realize. Your work here has been exemplary, and while I don’t know all the details, I know your work at Bletchley Park was highly regarded before you returned home to help care for your brother. But I also know you’ve always wanted to do more, to go in harm’s way and not just sit behind a desk.” He turned to face Peter. “I wouldn’t want to see you come to grief, you know that. But this is the one chance you’ll ever have to get out of this broom closet and head into the field before the war in Europe is over, and I can guarantee you that you’ll never be sent on a mission to the Pacific. More than that, if there’s really anything to this Black Gate business, if it poses a genuine threat, then this mission could be one of the most, if not
the
most, important that we’ve ever carried out. Donovan told me that himself.”

You keep telling yourself that you missed the show
, Peter thought, his hand moving to his knee to massage the atrophied flesh stretched over the shattered joint.
But is this the part you want to play?
 

“It’s the only part left,” he whispered to himself. To Connelly, he said, “How much time do I have before I leave?”
 

“None, unfortunately. Donovan’s already kicked the people in the Special Operations Branch into high gear on this one. Our friend von Falkenstein has a tight schedule for his replacement, and we have to get you to the church on time.” He waved a hand around the office. “I’ll take care of wrapping all this up. Grab your coat and get going. There’s a car waiting for you downstairs.” Connelly reached out and shook Peter’s hand. “Good luck.”

***

Stepping outside into the cold morning air, Peter looked at his watch and saw that it was only eight thirty. His entire world had been turned inside out in little more than half an hour.

As promised, a staff car was there, waiting for him, a cloud of exhaust rising from the tailpipe. A burly man who could have been mistaken for an oversized fire hydrant said, “Morning, sir,” as he opened the rear passenger door.

“Is it?” Peter said as he slid onto the seat. “I’m not entirely sure.”

The man grinned but said nothing as he closed the door and came around to get into the driver’s seat.
 

As they pulled out of the OSS headquarters complex, Peter asked, “Where are we going?”

“Heading south to Area A, sir.” Area A was at the Chopawamsic Recreational Demonstration Area near Quantico, Virginia, and was one of the main training facilities for OSS agents.

“I’d like to head home, first, if you don’t mind.”

“Sorry, sir, but I’m to take you straight to Area A. The general told me himself.”

Peter shook his head and chuckled at the insanity of it all. “Of course,” he said. “What was I thinking.” On the other hand, he wouldn’t have been able to take anything with him, so there wasn’t really any point. All that remained for him in his apartment were his books and painful memories. He didn’t even have a dog or cat to worry about.