Chapter Five

Niles McKenzie faded into the shadows as the Nazi force crashed into the bar, bristling with weapons.  The men fanned out and for a brief moment, he wasn’t sure he would be able to hide, but then the gunfire erupted outside and their attention was diverted.

            McKenzie slowed his breathing, willing the ambient light to wrap around his form to conceal him in the darkness, becoming a living shadow.  He had learned the ancient technique at a Tibetan monastery. The monk that had instructed him had mentioned teaching the technique to one other American, a pilot named Allard who had spent time in the mountains following the Great War, but as far as he knew, no one outside that forbidden place had mastered this ability.

            It took only a few moments for the Nazis to divide their numbers, half running back outside, half charging up the stairs.  The ones going up concerned him the most; Bridget had gone that way, along with Mike Hannigan and Degiorno. 

            Cloaked in the concealing shadows, McKenzie moved up the stairs behind the invading force. 

            He wasn’t sure what he would be able to accomplish.  He had no weapons; he had forsworn their use following his entering the priesthood. Yet he still practiced the mysterious martial art called “Te-lo.”  He could, if he chose, kill several of them before they even realized they were under attack, but there were too many for him to kill them all.  Besides, killing was something he had hoped never to do again.  The faces of those whose lives he had taken during the war still haunted his dreams. 

            But sometimes there were things worth killing for, worth enduring more ghosts.  To protect Bridget, he was more than prepared to kill again, God have mercy on his soul. 

            The sound of more gunfire - not just the Germans' sub-machine guns, but also the loud report of a big caliber handgun - erupted from above, but it was faint, perhaps originating on the roof.  He felt an unaccustomed smile twitch across his lips.  So Hannigan had gotten her out of the building and away. 

            McKenzie faded back into the shadows, becoming one with them, determined to wait the Nazis out.  When they left, he would take the boat back to the Mission to rendezvous with his daughter and the others.

                                   *****

Sturmscharfuhrer Hans Wessel cursed under his breath as his men spread out across the roof.  Degiorno had escaped.  The Fuhrer would not be pleased. 

Still, he had the original map.  He only suspected that the Italian had somehow made a copy of it, he couldn't be sure.  Killing Degiorno had simply been a matter of tidying up loose ends. 

He removed his brown cap and ran long thin fingers through his thin blond hair, brushing it back from his face. A torrent of perspiration coursed down his high forehead beneath the heat of the African sun.   What a forsaken place this is, he thought.

He and his men had arrived the night before after a long voyage aboard the zeppelin Valkyrie.   Their solemn task was to find the lost city in Africa where the fabled Emerald of Eternity was said to have been entombed eons before.  Personally, Wessel felt that the Fuhrer’s obsession with this occult relic was ridiculous.

Hitler himself had admitted the truth of Marx's statement that religion was the opiate of the masses; he manipulated the Church in Germany like a puppet master, promising them a return to the Holy Roman Empire, yet in his private counsels called Christianity a model for Bolshevism.  Yet for all his scorn of their faith, he entertained a fascination with the supernatural. 

It was Himmler’s influence; it had to be.  Just as the propaganda minister had filled the nation's head with dreams of the Thousand Year Reich, so too had he played on the Fuhrer’s youthful fascination with the ancient mysteries.

Wessel knew of other special teams that had been sent out in search of mythical treasures.  Some combed the deserts looking for the fabled lost ark of the Israelites, another group, after receiving special - some would say dubious - information from a psychic medium, had been sent to learn if the so-called Spear of Destiny, which Hitler had personally removed from the Hofmuseum in Vienna and taken to Nuremburg, was actually the lance which had killed Christ.

           And now the Emerald of Eternity… superstitious nonsense.

According to Himmler, the gem was a supposed remnant of the lost city of Atlantis.  He shook his head and replaced his cap.  “Recall the men,” he announced, sending the command out through the officers.

Degiorno and the others were gone.  It would take far too much time and energy to root them out.  It would be more prudent, he thought, to simply accomplish the mission: to follow the map to the lost city.  If the Italian truly was trying to double-cross them, they could always deal with him later.  Perhaps he could spare a couple of agents to stay in town with orders to shoot the Italian on sight.  

As eager as he was to return to the Valkyrie, he dreaded another encounter with Doctor Ragnarok, the scientist that had been dispatched as the Fuhrer's personal agent in the search, no doubt at Himmler's urging.  Or perhaps it was the other way around.

Scientist… the word seemed inappropriate when applied to the masked mystic who seemed to have an almost obsessive interest in finding the stone.  Wessel wondered if the good doctor wasn't more interested in finding the gem for his own dark purposes, rather than the glory of the Reich.

Such superstition… it bothered him that so many important decisions - life and death decisions - were being made by men who consulted oracles and the stars.  Men like Himmler and Ragnarok, and even Hitler himself.  Was the Nazi party truly being led by a madman?

Wessel pushed the thought away as soon as it formed.  Such thoughts were the seeds of treason, and the Gestapo had a way of hearing even the faintest whispers of discontent.

Wessel shook his head again.  It was time to get back to the Valkyrie. He started back down the stairs but as he passed a shadowy corner, he had the strangest feeling that he was being watched. 

                                    *****

“I'll bet they came in on the zeppelin I saw last night from the ship,” Hannigan told the others as they reached the ground floor of the building.

“What zeppelin?” Shotsky asked.          

“The one I spotted last night from The African Queen.  It flew over right after you went below.”

“It has to be Wessel,” Degiorno groaned from behind them.

“Who’s Wessel?” Bridget asked, turning to face the Italian.

“The German officer who hired me to find The Emerald of Eternity,” Degiorno replied with a groan.  His white suit now soaked with sweat.

“What is this Emerald of Eternity?” Bridget asked--her innate curiosity obviously aroused.

“Wessel never told me, but I did some discreet digging.  It is a magnificent gemstone, said to have belonged to the most powerful wizard to have ever walked in ancient Atlantis.  He used it to see into the future, and with certain rituals, was said to be able to change the future.  …If you believe that sort of thing of course.”

“And Hitler believes this mumbo-jumbo?” Hannigan asked.  

Degiorno shrugged and drew a handkerchief from his jacket pocket to mop his brow. “If it gives him the power to rule the world, I suppose it's just too tempting to pass up.”         

“You said you just wanted it for the money,” Hannigan accused.  “Now you're saying this emerald could give him that much power?”

“It could,” Degiorno replied, his head hanging low.  “He certainly seems to think so.”

“You believe in the stone’s power,” Bridget said, but it wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” the Italian admitted, guiltily.  “I've... heard things.”            

“Then we have to get to it before they do,” Hannigan said, his tone grim.             

“Yes,” Degiorno replied, his voice almost too faint to hear.

                                    *****

Captain Morgan raised his cap at the sound of distant gunfire.  Damned town was getting too lively for his taste.  Getting so a decent riverboat captain can’t get no rest when he's in homeport no more.  At that moment, a man appeared in front of him. 

Morgan’s eyes widened in shock.  It was McKenzie, the priest from the mission way up on the Congo River.  Morgan had loaded his boat up earlier in the day with supplies bound for the Mission, a journey of about two days.  He had been planning to leave the following morning.

“Father, what the bleedin’ Hell... beg pardon, but what are ye doin’ here?”

“Riding with you to the Mission, My Son,” Niles McKenzie replied in a solemn voice.          

“Bloody Hell you say.”  Morgan winced again at his use of profanity in the priest's presence, but stood his ground.  “I got no room for passengers on my boat.  You always fly back with that hellcat daughter of yours.”            

“Bridget is no hellcat.” 

McKenzie’s voice was soft and low and ominous, and it sent a chill racing down Morgan’s spine.  If he didn’t know better, he would almost have thought the priest was threatening him.            

“Eh.  Well, when are you plannin’ on leaving?”

“Now is fine,” McKenzie replied, untying lines and freeing the boat from its moorings.  The riverboat was already being tugged into the current as Morgan came to his feet.

“Now wait just one minute, Padre.”

The priest turned to face him, the look on his face conveying a promise of a lingering death that would bring more pain than an extended stay in the lowest pit of hell.

“No waiting,” McKenzie said his voice as cold as death itself.

Morgan felt himself swallow a huge lump that had suddenly insinuated itself into his throat.  “Right.  We'll go now.”

He moved to the cabin and fired up the engines.  If they ran all through the night, they might reach the falls by late morning.  Normally that would be the end of the line for him; the Congo Diamond only ran the lower Congo, while her sister boat, the Congo Ruby, made the long journey between Leopoldville and Stanleyville.  But just this once, Morgan thought it might be wise to see the cargo - and the passenger - all the way to the Mission.  He didn't want to irritate the strange clergyman any more than he already had.  He had already figured it would be smarter to refrain from commenting about the Priest’s adopted daughter, if he wished to live.

                                    *****

“We have a problem,” Bridget told the others as she led them to where her seaplane - a Grumman JF Duck - was docked.           

“What’s that?” Hannigan asked.            

“The plane only holds the pilot and two other people.  There happen to be four of us,” she told them.        

“Four of us, three seats, yeah that could be a problem, Kid.”

“Somebody will have to ride on the outside,” Bridget said, her voice grim.         

“Gregor, Degiorno. I just drew the short straw,” Hannigan’s voice was flat and cold. “Get in the plane.”