In a chair by the window sat a man dressed in full uniform: black hat with the Death’s Head emblem; long black leather boots; shining buttons; sig runes; swastikas – the whole regalia of the SS. His face turned only slightly, and he looked at his visitor with those small myopic eyes ensconced behind pince-nez. To Rahn he looked like an accountant, someone who, at another time, might have lived an inconsequential life, perhaps as a disliked but tolerated clerk, a civil servant with shabby domestic cares. Rahn could see him riding a bus to work, thinking about money or illness, shuffling through his life unperturbed by the great problems of fate and goodness. But destiny had dealt him different cards and here he was.
When the man smiled – white, thinly spread and shrewd – it caused a tremor to pass over his left cheek. He blinked and blinked again, adjusting his lenses.
Rahn realised he must do something, so he stiffened his back and raised his right hand in what to him felt like a rather comical version of Hitler’s salute.
The other man didn’t stand. He gave an effeminate little wave and said, ‘Heil Hitler.’
Rahn waited while the seated man stared with an expression much like that of the mouse that has tricked the cat in those American cartoons. He almost expected the man to say, ‘Boo!’ and laugh heartily, but he didn’t. Instead he looked Rahn over, scanning him from head to toe, no doubt ticking off a mental check list of features that displayed the Aryan ideal: green-grey eyes; smooth hair; fair skin; tall with good bones; not terribly athletic but nothing that a good stint in training couldn’t cure.
When he spoke, his voice sounded small, as if it were coming from inside a radio speaker. ‘Otto Rahn! Delighted to meet you at last. Will you take a seat? I did wonder if you would answer my mysterious telegram. Sorry about that – it couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid. Correspondence in and out of Germany has to be considered carefully these days. One never knows who is listening in. Still, I had a feeling you would come and here you are! Tell me, are you astonished? It isn’t every day you find the Reichsführer waiting in an apartment to greet you?’
Rahn faltered. To say he wasn’t surprised might seem to be acknowledging some form of guilt. On the other hand, to say that he was surprised might sound as though such a thing as Heinrich Himmler coming to meet a man in an apartment in Berlin was altogether ludicrous. So he said nothing. He simply returned the smile and sat down. It was an impossible situation. Beyond his fear and awkwardness he began to speak, but Himmler interrupted him with a raised hand.
‘There’s no need. Your anxiety is perfectly understandable. Many people feel sick when they see this black tunic,’ he said. ‘But this is the desired effect, you see! Our aim is to be as much feared by the criminal, as we are regarded by the German citizen as a trusted friend and helper.’
With immense effort, Rahn answered, ‘Of course, in truth, Germany has never felt a safer place.’
‘Correct.’ Himmler gazed at him, his eyes laconic and expressionless and his features stagnant.
For a moment, the only sound Rahn heard was the passing of a streetcar below. This situation was far outside his experience and he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do next. He had a terrible desire to let go a nervous laugh, but he coughed politely into his hand instead.
‘Let’s get to the point, shall we?’ Himmler reached for a book on the table. It was a German copy of Crusade Against the Grail, Rahn’s book. The Reichsführer leafed through it for quite a time, pausing now and again to read something before speaking. ‘When you wrote this, you brought yourself to the attention of the Führer. The Führer is very attentive, always on the lookout.’
‘If I have offended—’
The man laughed a small, clipped laugh. ‘Are you listening, Wolfgang?’ he called to his bodyguard. ‘Our author believes he is going to Dachau!’
The guard nodded as if such a thought did not go beyond the realm of possibility.
‘Well, I shall let you in on a secret – you are off the hook, as the Americans say.’
Rahn felt a sneeze coming on, which he tried to suppress.
‘No, our Führer agrees with me that your work is erudite and Aryan to the highest degree, an example of the German creative spirit and an inspiration for our men. In actuality, he believes you are closely connected to the Reich, through your destiny . . .’
Rahn didn’t know what to say to this, nor indeed if anything was required of him, so he said nothing.
‘You are not only an expert on history, Herr Rahn, but you also have a good working knowledge of the occult – something we regard highly. In fact, we believe that many lives have prepared you precisely for the moment when you could offer your gifts to the Reich. And I am here to tell you, personally, the moment has now arrived.’