‘Maybe we should have brought some oil?’ ‘Just try it,’ she snarled.
This time it turned easily and the door opened with a slight creak. ‘You just have to have the knack.’ He was glad she hadn’t brought a knife.
The barred door to the inner chamber was much simpler. Only a single key in the bunch, the big silver one Magda had brought out earlier, looked capable of fitting the ornate lock and the gate swung open without complaint when Sarah turned it. They slipped inside and stood in the darkness. Jamie knew the exact location of the Black Sun, but for some reason he found it difficult to move. It wasn’t fear, he told himself, just a sensible precaution. This was a chamber where only the initiated were meant to feel at home. He’d expected there to be at least a little light from the windows in the alcoved niches, but it seemed someone had closed the shutters. Still he could visualize the Obergruppenführersaal from their previous visit. Twelve large pillars circled the room, and twelve empty niches that had never been filled. He knew that the number twelve played a major role in Nazi mythology; just as the twelve apostles served Christ and twelve knights followed King Arthur, so an inner circle of twelve Obergruppenführer served Himmler. The only sound was Sarah’s steady breathing. He knew they were alone, but in the darkness of the chamber it was as if the ghosts of the past stalked them.
Forcing his feet to move, he walked slowly to the centre of the chamber and with a soft click his torch illuminated the marble symbol on the floor. The first surprise was that it wasn’t black, it was green, a mottled greyish green the colour of the Wehrmacht uniforms he’d seen in colour newsreels of the Russian Front. The second, that it was much bigger than it had looked.
‘The Black Sun,’ Sarah whispered.
‘But not our Black Sun. This is different.’ He felt a moment of confusion, uncertain whether to be disappointed or not. The symbol from his grandfather’s diary had nine arms, this had twelve, and there was no message or number.
By now Sarah had pulled a large piece of tracing paper from her bag and was hurriedly copying the design. As an afterthought she shaded in the centre of the sun with the pencil as if it were a brass rubbing. She had just finished and was in the act of replacing the paper when the beam of a powerful torch trapped them in its spotlight.
XXIV
Silicon Valley, California
‘THE ARTEFACT IS of very ancient construction.’ Six men in white protective suits stood over the golden casket inside the ‘clean’ area of the laboratory complex, but only one spoke into the microphone. Speakers relayed his emotionless voice to the glass booth where the man who had initiated the raid on the Menshikov Palace now stood. He cut an incongruous figure in his T-shirt and jeans, with the thick-lensed rimless spectacles that reminded people of a short-sighted cartoon character and his long grey hair tied in a ponytail. He knew he was a throwback to another era, but he had never cared what anyone else thought about him. Money allowed you to make your own decisions and he’d long ago made more than enough money to tell the world to go screw itself. He listened intently as the scientist continued.
‘Tests conducted on the base of the object confirm it is manufactured of mahogany wood, probably imported from India, overlaid with a thin sheet of beaten gold which chemical analysis suggests is of similar origin. The gold is embossed with extensive symbols and patterns. Several letters are visible, but these are in a very obscure and venerable form of Sanskrit, possibly even pre-Sanskrit, and are indecipherable to me.’
He paused and looked up at the watchers. ‘I understand more expert eyes are already studying this aspect of the investigation.’
He turned his attention back to the casket. ‘The lock has a fairly complex twin-barrel mechanism, but we have been able to manufacture a key that should allow me to open it. Radiation levels are normal for an object that has spent many years in the mountains of Tibet, however our X-rays indicate the box may be lined with lead or some other similar material, so before I begin, please seal off the room.’
Metal screens rose up in front of the booth window and the man inside concentrated on the voice. ‘Check suit integrity. Yes? I will commence to open the box.’
The words were an inane catchphrase from some long-forgotten TV game show. Did the scientist have a sense of humour? It seemed unlikely. The pony-tailed man had known him for fifteen years and he could barely remember seeing him smile. Nerves, perhaps. That was more likely. Whatever was inside the casket, even if it only held a tiny trace of what they hoped, could change their lives. The scientist would hold the key to the last great secret of nuclear physics and the man in the booth would take a decisive step towards his goal of becoming the most powerful person on the planet. He held his breath and it seemed that the silence that preceded the metallic click of the lock’s engagement was the eternal silence of the grave.