Valhalla (20 page)

2 December
RV
Leitstern
North Atlantic Ocean
Off Bar Harbor, Maine

“Starboard twenty! Midships! Steady!” called out Captain Peter Bjorklund to the ship's coxswain as a helicopter lifted off from the ship's forward landing deck. Bjorklund glanced up to see the next chopper waiting a hundred feet above them to land.

A steady stream of important visitors had continued to arrive, and Bjorklund was grateful that the capricious North Atlantic had moderated to a whisper of its usual shrieking self.

He stared down from the bridge at the landing pad as a man in a French military uniform emerged from the newly landed helicopter and quickly crossed the landing deck to the main hatchway.

Bjorklund had found his personal salvation through the Ancient Way after losing his wife and children in an airliner crash. He had resigned his commission in the Norwegian navy after the prince personally asked him to take command of RV
Leitstern
.

He wondered what had spurred the gathering that was taking place in the ship's medical amphitheater two decks below the bridge, but he knew better than to ask. It had been made clear to him that his sole responsibility was commanding the ship.

He glanced up at the charcoal sky. It was almost one with the horizon.

A messenger called out, “Signal, sir.”

Bjorklund took the message and quickly read it.

“A storm of major intensity is on its way,” he said to the others on the bridge.

In his mind's eye, he could see it coming with murderous winds and possibly snow or sleet. He hoped the new arrivals gathered below would all be gone by the time it hit.

*   *   *

Two decks below him, the Marquess Antoinette Celeste de Villiers, the secretary-general of health of the European Union, felt a thrill of anticipation as she gazed up at the faces of the men and women surrounding her in the amphitheater.

She had become terribly seasick the previous day, but the newly calmed seas had restored both her sense of well-being and her enthusiasm for everything about to unfold.

“Welcome to you all,” she said with an expansive smile.

De Villiers had met most of them during her decades of service within the international diplomatic community, but she had been stunned to discover just how many were followers of the Ancient Way.

In the first four rows, she recognized five ambassadors, three senior officials of the United Nations World Health Organization, several European generals and admirals, and a number of high-ranking ministers.

Projected on the wall-length screen behind him were the words:

OPERATION TJIKKO

“For those of you hearing the details of our operation for the first time,” said de Villiers, “our goal is nothing less than restoring the stability of this earth.”

Sitting alone in the top row, Johannes Prinz Karl Erich Maria von Falkenberg wondered how long he could endure the pain now raging through his intestines without crying out in agony. He sat hunched over his cane, his fingers desperately clutching its carved lion's head.

“Phase one of Operation Tjikko will begin in two days, and its impact will be felt almost everywhere in the world,” said the Marquess de Villiers, pressing a button on her remote-control device.

Behind her, a high-resolution digital map of the world was projected on the massive screen, encompassing all the continents, countries, and major cities.

“You will note that the cities and regions included in phase one are offset in red,” she said. “Phase two areas are identified in blue, and phase three in yellow.”

“In the first round of cities, waterborne viral agents prepared by our research team will be introduced into the principal reservoirs providing their drinking water supplies. In those regions in which the population is more dispersed, such as the Middle East and China, airborne agents will be disseminated by aircraft.”

Von Falkenberg knew he wouldn't live to witness the fruits of his sacred contribution to the future generations of his race. He didn't want to die. In spite of everything he had suffered during the Second World War, including the loss of his wife and daughters, the life force was still strong within him. He could still savor the joy of spontaneous laughter, the pleasure of a good book, the serenity of spring along the Rhine.

He thought of the vast fortune he had raised to make Operation Tjikko a reality. It hadn't been easy, particularly in the early years when he had made the case to donors that the future belonged to the genome. Few believed it possible, telling him it sounded like a science fiction story.

“Let us take a look at what will happen in Germany,” said de Villiers, using her remote control again.

A detailed thematic map of Germany, showing population densities by regions and cities, as well as racial and ethnic concentrations, took the place of the map of the world.

“As you will note, Germany's current population is characterized by declining birthrates among Caucasians and soaring fertility rates among non-Caucasians. Although Germany is the sixteenth largest nation in the world, it has the third highest number of international migrants, nearly twenty million persons. In 1965, one of every seventy-five children in Germany was on the welfare rolls. Today it is nearly one in four. The vast majority of these are non-Caucasian peoples, with Africans being the fastest growing group, along with Turks, Arabs, Kurds, Chinese, and Latin Americans. You'll see in the following chart that the percentage of perpetrators of violent crime mirrors the same proportion of non-Caucasian peoples, principally in Berlin. It is unsustainable.”

Von Falkenberg managed a weak smile as he contemplated a future in which the Fatherland would regain its rightful place as leader in the community of nations, a beacon of promise to the world.

“Simply put, the viral agents we will introduce in Germany and the other phase one regions are designed to break through the genetic defenses in non-Caucasian mothers. Although the calibration of the potential impact cannot be precise, our estimate is that approximately half of all non-Caucasian women will be unable to conceive a child after being exposed to the agents. Those already pregnant will face a significant chance of miscarriage. In a few cases, the very young may succumb as well.”

A chart showing future birthrates was projected on the screen.

“In cities like Berlin, Paris, London, and New York, the result will be a dramatic reduction in the birthrates of non-Caucasian women,” said de Villiers. “We anticipate a mass migration from our targeted cities of the non-Caucasian populations within two years.”

One of the United Nations health officials raised his hand.

“How is Caucasian defined? Who will actually be immune from the virus?” he asked.

“Utilizing the genetic building blocks isolated by Dr. Larsen and his team, we have defined the Caucasian race for the purposes of Operation Tjikko to be made up of four subcategories—the Nordic race, the Dinaric or Epirotic race, the Alpine race, and the Mediterranean race, or any mixture of men and women within these categories,” said de Villiers. “No one else will inherently possess the genetic immunity to combat the viral agents we are employing.”

“What about those Caucasians whose blood was mixed with non-Caucasians, perhaps in the long-distant past?” said an ambassador.

“As I have stated, only those prospective mothers whose genetic makeup is derived entirely from those four categories will be immune,” said de Villiers.

“Why won't it affect non-Caucasian adults?” asked one of the ministers.

“You'll have to ask Dr. Larsen that question,” said de Villiers. “He was the man who unlocked the key to genetically breaching the autoimmune system by race, and he and his team have calibrated the formulas to accomplish the task that was laid out for them. We are not mass murderers. We are hoping to minimize any loss of life.”

Von Falkenberg would not be alive to see it, but he knew he was leaving the world a better place. And when his mortal life ended, the halls of Valhalla were waiting. And Ingrid would be there along with their three daughters. He yearned to see her face again, as she had been when he last saw her, before the Russian animals had violated her.

He prayed once more that he would live long enough to kneel before the immortal remains of Leifr Eriksson, his personal divinity in the pantheon of heroes from Bjarki to Hagbard, Ragnar, Lodbrok, and Sigurd Ring, and to know that, in the future, Leifr's DNA would complete the genetic map of his beneficiaries.

The marquess stepped toward the assembled leaders.

“When the impact of phase one is first felt, it will appear to be the latest in the long line of perplexing viruses that have always afflicted mankind, the latest being AIDS,” she said. “Historically, horrific and epidemic diseases and viruses have struck with great ferocity, taking millions of lives before they are brought under control. Today, what were once cataclysmic diseases such as measles and smallpox are little more than minor afflictions. However, we are about to introduce an entity from which there is no antidote, no accommodation. Where did this affliction come from? the world will ask. We are preparing an evidentiary chain that will make the case it emanates from a spoor carried within an asteroid shower that recently landed in many parts of the world.”

“Why was the Congo chosen as one of the first targets?” asked De Ruyter of the UNWHO as he looked again at the original map. “They are successfully destroying one another on their own without the use of viral agents.”

“The Congo was a personal request of Prince von Falkenberg, who is so responsible for bringing about this day,” said de Villiers.

Many of the dignitaries turned to look at the old man in the top row.

“We consider it to be a merciful blessing,” went on the Marquess de Villiers. “As you know, the magnitude of the continuing tribal slaughter there is simply horrendous. Hundreds of thousands of women were raped there just in the last year. How many nights of sleep I have personally lost to the evil being perpetrated there, I cannot tell you. Yes, it will be a blessing.”

“Will this not sow a war between the races?” asked the Swiss foreign minister. “If Caucasian mothers are not affected by the virus, won't it set off a firestorm of rage against us?”

“An excellent question,” responded de Villiers. “The answer is that it will simply serve to confirm the superiority of the Caucasian race. None of us will be cheering from the sidelines as the non-Caucasian population begins to shrink across the world. To the contrary, we will publicly pledge to commit all our resources to help. After sufficient time has passed, we will introduce what in essence will be the antidote. By then, non-Caucasians who are still uncontaminated will be desperate to embrace a cure that will enable them to have a healthy baby immune from the disease. In the face of this modern plague, we will provide a cure at no cost. Of course, it will no longer matter what the genes of the parents are. We will inject a gene sequence into the embryo that will deliver a Caucasian baby.”

“The genetic remapping of the world,” said one of the generals with a tone of awe.

“Precisely,” agreed de Villiers. “Before we break up into smaller groups to go over individual assignments, I would like to take this moment to offer our heartfelt gratitude to the man most responsible for what we are about to accomplish. I am speaking of course of Dr. Per Larsen.”

The scientist was sitting in a seat at the end of the first row. When they rose as one to give him a standing ovation, he stood for a moment to gaze up at the cheering disciples. Ashen, he turned on his heel and strode out the door of the amphitheater.

When von Falkenberg tried to stand up to follow him, he found he was unable to raise himself from his seat. Even worse, he was disgusted to realize he had soiled himself in the process.

2 December
The Long Wharf
Boston, Massachusetts

Barnaby counted up the cash he had on hand. It came to almost fifteen thousand dollars. He divided it into three stacks and passed one to Lexy and another to Macaulay.

“In case we get split up along the way,” he said.

Ten minutes later, Macaulay was standing in his hooded snorkel coat outside the basement entrance to Barnaby's lair when Delia Glantz pulled up in her cherry red Lexus LX SUV. Barnaby and Lexy were waiting just inside the door, their gear stacked behind them on the stone staircase.

Lexy had gently asked Barnaby to make himself a little less noticeable when he was dressing for the trip. After brooding for several minutes, he had reluctantly hidden some of his hair under a plaid Balmoral bonnet. Then he had put on a one-piece fleece-lined navy blue boiler suit.

“The car is almost as inconspicuous as Barnaby,” said Macaulay as he directed Delia to park the SUV between the building's four Dumpsters. While Barnaby led her aside, Lexy and Macaulay began stowing the gear in the SUV's luggage bay.

“Are you sure I can't come with you, Dr. Finchem?” said Delia.

“I'm sorry.”

“I know you're in danger,” she said. “I heard on the radio that your home was invaded and you were reported missing.”

“You can see that's not true,” he said.

Lexy climbed into the driver's seat and Macaulay joined her on the passenger side. Starting the car again, she noted that fewer than a hundred miles were registered on the odometer.

“Delia, I need you to do something very important for me,” said Barnaby. “Promise me you won't tell anyone that you have lent me your car. Absolutely no one . . . You mustn't call or e-mail your parents, your friends, or any of your fellow students about me. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” she said, standing on her toes to kiss him good-bye.

Barnaby began to feel his resolve weakening when Macaulay pressed the button to roll down his window and said, “We need to leave before the world comes to an end, Dr. Finchem.”

Barnaby climbed sulkily into the backseat and shut the door. Delia stood watching him as Lexy put the car in gear and they headed down the wharf.

“Is that what they call mentoring one's students?” said Macaulay.

“Why don't you just shut up?” said Lexy.

Macaulay found himself wondering if she and Barnaby had once shared the same kind of relationship. He tried to rule it out of his mind as they worked their way through a small traffic jam on North Washington Street and merged onto Route 95 heading north. She kept the speed to a steady seventy-five, and an hour later they crossed the Piscataqua River Bridge at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and headed into Maine.

“Our first objective is Ragged Island,” said Barnaby, reading a collection of data from his iPad. “It's located on the edge of Eastern Casco Bay about three miles due east of Bailey Island, and its size is seventy-seven acres. It was once owned by the poet Edna St. Vincent Millay and is a traditional nesting place for eider ducks. It has potable water, orchards, pastures, some caves, and rocky elevations.”

“Edna St. Vincent Millay,” repeated Macaulay. “That could be a clue.”

“According to my search, the closest place to charter a boat is at the southern tip of the Harpswell Peninsula,” said Barnaby. “Potts Harbor Marine and Fishing Charters, it's called. ‘Captain Mike Grubb at your pleasure.'”

He told Macaulay the address and asked him to plug it into the GPS system.

“I'll buy a map when we get into Maine,” said Macaulay. “A GPS system is potentially traceable. Anyway, I doubt he's doing business this time of year. How many fishing charters do you think people book in December?”

“Leave that to me,” said Barnaby.

Barnaby fell asleep as they drove through Brunswick. The modern amenities of Chinese restaurants, John Deere dealerships, gas stations, and motels quickly gave way to fallow fields and pastures cloaked in the dim winter light when they turned south onto a country road. There was no traffic in either direction.

Lexy gazed at a succession of well-kept saltboxes and capes, their garden patches covered with seaweed for the winter. Some had boats lying in the driveways, draped with canvas tarps. Smoke rose from a few of the chimneys. Many were summer cottages closed up until the summer season.

Barnaby was still asleep, and his breathing was becoming increasingly labored. Lexy turned around to look at him. His color was very pale and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

“I don't think we should let him go with us,” she whispered to Macaulay. “What if he has another heart attack?”

“Can you find the tomb without him?” asked Macaulay.

While pondering the question, she smelled the tang of the sea. A moment later, Barnaby stirred in the backseat.

“Alexandra,” he said, “I've been pondering a few of the clues.”

Macaulay was about to suggest it sounded more like snoring, but he desisted as Barnaby retrieved the translation of the rune inscription.

“It lies under shadow from the dawn,”
he read aloud. “At daybreak on the island we're looking for, one part of it is lit by the sun while another remains in shadow. In those first few seconds, I believe the area where the cavern entrance is located will be in shadows. Of course, the light falls differently in the winter than in spring when the storm wrecked them there, but it can't be all that different.”

“Assuming the sun comes out at this time of year,” said Macaulay.

“Don't be a pessimist, General,” said Barnaby.

“
What about
five by five squared
and
over and under
?” asked Lexy.

“I've given that thought too. I think the surviving Norsemen sealed the entrance to the cavern with slabs of rock, each of them cut roughly to five feet square. ‘Over and under' suggests that there are two layers of them, one on top of the other for additional protection.”

“Vertical or horizontal?” asked Lexy.

“They are lying flat,” said Barnaby, his eyes closed in concentration. “If they were vertical, the evenly seamed formation would have attracted serious curiosity at some point in the last thousand years. By now the slabs would be almost interconnected with the surrounding rock formation, or possibly buried under standing water, or under soil or scrub growth. Exposed to light, however, the seams in the rock slabs will still be roughly parallel.”

“I think we've arrived,” said Macaulay.

The spit of land had gradually narrowed until the shoreline closed in on both sides of the car. Ahead of them, the southern tip of the peninsula ended with a long rocky ledge.

A harsh wind buffeted the SUV as Macaulay slowed down and stopped next to a wooden sign at the edge of the road that read
POTTS HARBOR MARINE
. Another handmade sign tacked over it read
CL
OSED FOR THE SEASON
.

“What did I tell you?” said Macaulay.

“A minor impediment, oh ye of little faith,” said Barnaby.

A two-story, cedar-shingled cottage sat by the edge of the sea at the end of the brown lawn. Barnaby could see the glow of a bare bulb shining through one of the downstairs windows.

“Wait here,” he said, stepping out of the car and stretching for a few moments as a curtain of wind-driven salt spray peppered his face and boiler suit. Fully revived, he strode toward the front entrance.

Beyond the cottage, he could see a wooden pier extending into a small cove protected by a rocky ledge. Tethered to the pier was a traditional down east trawler, about thirty feet long with a wide beam and deep hull. Its superstructure was wrapped in a white canvas cocoon.

Above the front door of the cottage, a red banner proclaimed
PROUD TO BE A CITIZEN OF THE
R
ED
S
OX NA
TION
. Before Barnaby could knock, the door was opened by a man in overalls. He waved him inside and shut the door.

“No need to heat the state of Maine,” he said. “I saw you pull up. Who are you looking for?”

“Captain Mike Grubb,” said Barnaby.

“You've found him,” said the man.

Barnaby guessed he was about fifty. Short and wiry, he had narrow-set small eyes and a walrus mustache that covered most of his mouth. He led Barnaby over to a wood-burning stove in the living room and sat down in one of the sprung easy chairs, motioning Barnaby into the other. There was a bad smell in the room.

“The place isn't for sale,” said Mike Grubb. “I'm doing just fine.”

A coffee table near the stove was littered with the remains of a huge lobster and six empty cans of Canadian ale. A fake Christmas tree was tipped over along the rear wall.

“I'm not looking for real estate, Captain Grubb,” said Barnaby. “I would like to charter your boat for a quick run out to Ragged Island.”

“My ex-wife, Greta, handles all the reservations,” he said. “She'll be back up here from Florida in April.”

“I meant right now,” said Barnaby. “This minute.”

“The
Dorothy B
. is put to bed for the winter,” said the little charter captain, cracking open another can of ale. He didn't offer any to Barnaby.

“I'm asking you to wake her up,” said Barnaby. “I'll pay you well.”

Grubb took a deep swallow and focused his bleary eyes on Barnaby.

“You with the circus or somethin'?” he asked.

“Actually, I'm a retired gynecologist,” said Barnaby, “and if you don't have anything important on at the moment, I would like you to take me and my friends out to that island.”

“You ain't wanted by the police?”

“Do I look like I'm wanted by the police?” responded Barnaby, removing his Balmoral bonnet. “I'll tell you the truth. Have you ever watched the new reality show
Incredible Race to Getaway Island
?”

“I think so,” said Grubb, scratching his crew-cut hair.

“We're one of the teams,” said Barnaby, “and there's a big prize for the winner. I'll give you two thousand dollars in cash to get us out there.”

Grubb stoked the fire with an iron poker, glancing out the back window of the living room at the surging black sea. Reaching to a wall switch next to his chair, he turned on a dock light that bathed his trawler in light.

“The
Dorothy B
.'s your classic down east design, wide-beamed and stable in a rough sea like we got now. She'll do sixteen knots in a heartbeat and . . .”

“I don't need to buy the boat, Captain Grubb,” interrupted Barnaby. “I want to pay you a king's ransom to rent it for the afternoon. Time is of the essence. There's a rival group on the show trying to beat us out there right now. Are you a man of action or not?”

The wily charter captain kept shaking his head.

“It's a good five miles out there,” he said. “I'd have to swing all the way south around Bailey Island before heading out into the open sea. I wouldn't do it for less than three thousand.”

“Fifteen hundred now and the rest upon our return,” said Barnaby, pulling a wad of cash out of the breast pocket of the boiler suit.

“Be a bit wicked going out, but we'd have a following sea coming back,” said Grubb, counting the money.

Barnaby was walking across the yard to the car, when he felt a searing bolt of pain in his chest, as if someone had suddenly strapped it in a vise. Lexy was standing by the edge of the road, watching him come. He saw the terrified look on her face as he began to fall.

He came awake again to find himself sitting in Captain Grubb's easy chair by the fire, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He felt like he had just run ten miles. His mouth was dry and tasted like bitter almonds. It was a challenge to keep his eyes open.

Macaulay held a small glass of amber liquid to his lips, and he swallowed it, feeling the heat of the whiskey rush through him. Through the window, he could see Captain Grubb removing the white canvas cocoon from his trawler.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” said Lexy.

Barnaby shook his head.

“Just leave me here,” he said. “Bring me the medication I have out in my travel bag and I'll be fine.”

When Macaulay opened the door to go out to get the bag, Lexy heard the sound of the boat's engines starting. Barnaby motioned her to sit down next to him.

“When you get to the island, try to imagine Eriksson and his men being wrecked there in the storm. Imagine the sun rising in your mind. Use your instincts. You have something close to a sixth sense in these matters. If it looks promising, come back and pick me up, and we'll search it together.”

Captain Grubb came back in through the patio door.

“When are the TV people getting here?” he asked.