At the Schloss Rahn mingled with the elite of Berlin, a strange mixture of Nazis, foreigners, businessmen, and members of the flying squadron who were billeted nearby. He drank a great deal, danced until his feet were sore and fascinated the guests by recounting his escapades in the caves of the Lombrives. On the odd occasion, he even took over the bar to make those cocktails he had learnt to mix from the Senegalese barman, Habdu, at the old hotel he once owned at Ussat-les-Bains. To the delight of all, he told stories of the guests he had served: Josephine Baker, Marlene Dietrich, even Pabst himself. What he didn’t tell them was that he had bought the place on a whim and had spent so much money on renovations it had sent him bankrupt.
At the Schloss he met an enigmatic man, a Georgian named Grigol Robakidze, a poet and playwright. Robakidze was in his mid-fifties and wore his short hair plastered to his head with pomade. When he looked out from under his well-shaped brows he exuded a decadent urbanity and an evil indolence that reminded Rahn of Bela Lugosi’s Count Dracula. Later, Gabriele would tell Rahn that rumours were always circulating about Robakidze. Some said he was a magician, others that he was a Russian Merlin or a genteel Rasputin. Some even went so far as to call him a spy.
Whatever the case, in the coming months Robakidze would prove a most congenial and interesting friend to Rahn, inviting him to sumptuous lunches or splendid dinners, during which they would sit for hours, locked in conversation. Whenever they met at the Schloss, the Russian behaved as though a meal with Rahn was a sacrament. Robakidze even became rather upset if Rahn was ever absent for the weekend.
The last time Rahn saw him at the Schloss, Robakidze seemed unusually subdued and suggested they abscond from the castle to a little restaurant in the township, where they could be alone. They ate their meal in a strange monastic silence and it was plain to Rahn that Robakidze had something on his mind. When they were finished and the plates were cleared away, the Russian lit a thin, Burmese cheroot and sat back, observing Rahn and saying nothing for a time.
‘You must be wondering,’ he began, finally, ‘why I have taken you away from excellent food and champagne bubbles to eat soggy strudel and to drink ordinary house wine?’
Rahn calculated his words, sensing something strange afoot. ‘Too much perfection can be tiresome.’
Robakidze raised one brow very high and his eyes narrowed. He seemed to be assessing Rahn. ‘I simply wanted a different milieu for what I am about to tell you.’
‘I see,’ was all Rahn could say.
‘You know from our conversations that long ago I was a pupil of Nietzsche,’ he said. ‘What you may not know is that one day I came across Goethe’s teachings and they have since become the basis of all my thinking, my poetry, and my prose. Goethe led to an illumination. I woke up to a strange species of knowledge: I knew, without a doubt, that Nietzsche was driven by a demon to write his work on the Antichrist. Yes, I can understand why you smile, but it is true!’ He leant forwards to whisper, ‘I believe that the very same demon has entered into German hearts.’ He sat back again and took a long drag of his cheroot, letting this sink in. ‘Why were the German people not inspired by Goethe?’ He shrugged. ‘Who can say? But they have made their choice and so Germany is headed for doom. One day, perhaps sooner than you think, you will understand. When that day comes, if you are in need of a friend, or if you find yourself in trouble, you can call this number. It is the number of the Black Swans.’ He took a card out of the inside pocket of his flawless suit and gave it to Rahn. Black Swans?
At the time Rahn couldn’t imagine what Robakidze meant by ‘trouble’. Later, on reflection, he understood that to continue to have any association with the Russian and these Black Swans, whomever they were, might prove dangerous to his health, so he stopped going to the Schloss altogether. In any event, his workload had increased so much that he had no time for pleasant weekends away.
It all began when he asked Weisthor for more time in the office, so he could concentrate on reworking an old travel diary he’d kept for some years into a book entitled Lucifer’s Court. But soon he was overseeing a number of additional projects, including reviewing an article written by the alchemist Gaston De Mengel.
De Mengel’s research into pre-Christian, Indian, Persian and Chinese religious documents was of a sudden interest to Himmler, and Rahn’s job was to check and to translate the article with the assistance of the flamboyant mathematician, SS Sturmbannführer Schmid.
Despite his growing workload, other items kept landing on his desk for consideration: treatises on Tibetan Buddhism and tantrism; books by the alchemist Arturo Reghini; articles on the lost Atlantean civilisation; pamphlets on the goddesses of Earth and Moon; works on Sacred Geometry – the science of grids, harmonic mathematics and Earth energies; as well as various texts on alchemy, witchcraft, ancient mythology, numerology and the science of symbols.