'Vril Society?' Jolene questioned sharply, shaking her head disapprovingly and raising a hand to stop Jackson. 'I know this one, this is where they channel messages from aliens telling them how to build a flying saucer and at the end of the war, they all climb aboard and zoom off to Venus. Am I right?'
'What?'
Dale had an expression of extreme confusion on his face and looked about the room, incredulous at the conversation.
'Look, I've been chasing South American drug lords for the last few months; I really have no idea what this is all about. I just collected the book as instructed and now you're talking about aliens and UFOs? I really have no idea what is going on.'
Jolene raised her eyebrows.
'I think we're all a little confused Officer Mallory!'
She looked pointedly across the table.
'Jackson?'
Jackson appeared to be rolling his tongue about his mouth like a boiled sweet. He closed his eyes and sat back.
'Look, it wasn't Venus it was Alpha Tauri in the Aldebaran star system and this isn't about aliens, UFOs, or even the occult aspect, it is just about one group of people telling another group of people what they wanted to hear in order to gain some level of influence over them. I am trying to give you some background into the individuals involved in this episode. Yes, it sounds crazy, but no crazier than Heinrich Himmler believing he was the reincarnation of a tenth century Saxon King. These people believed what they believed, rightly or wrongly, the point is we are primarily concerned with the search for facts.'
Dale could not help himself.
'Are you saying that they really built a flying saucer? Is that a fact?'
'Young man,' Jackson berated, 'if you want a career within the CIA then you would do well to remember that the search for intelligence starts with the collection of data and then the establishment of facts. The Library Service of the Central Intelligence Agency certainly collects data as a secondary function, but, its primary and most important role is in the collation of data and the provision of facts, however incompatible they seem to be with existing preconceptions.'
Making slight chopping motions with his hands against the desk, Jackson tried to clarify his position.
'I deal in facts and regardless of whether we want to believe those facts, they are what they are. It is the work of other sections and other analysts to determine truth, representing an interpretation of methods, events and attributes. Fact is not the same as truth.'
He turned to Dale.
'For instance, it is a fact that Saddam Hussein had no significant weapons of mass destruction at his disposal; however, it is a truth that we had to invade Iraq in order to prevent the use of those non-existent weapons. Do you see the difference? Contrary to popular belief, the Library Service does not embellish facts. That is the prerogative of, shall we say, more politically oriented pay grades, but then again, maybe I'm just old fashioned.'
'We're aware of your role within the agency,' Jolene retorted as she rolled her eyes, 'however, we're not getting very far in establishing the relevance of what you are detailing to the topic at hand.'
A silence ensued and it was Kappel's voice from the screen that broke the deadlock.
'Alright, let's just simmer down. Jackson, how does Maria Orsitsch fit into this? You say that she became involved with the Thule Society, what is the significance of that?'
Jackson realised that he needed to be placatory.
'Maria led a sub-group within the Vril Society that apparently consisted entirely of young female psychics who called themselves the 'Vrilerinnen'. Using the notion of channelling messages from an alien race concerning advanced technology they made inroads into the Thule Society and in time managed to interest some of the more esoteric minded elite of the fledgling Nazi Party and the future government of the Third Reich.'
He looked back to Jolene as he continued.
'As the Nazi's became more prominent, this group used their admittedly questionable position of influence to introduce a number of other allegedly like-minded people into ostensibly scientific programmes that the Nazi's were funding, notably ramping up their activities just prior to the outbreak of hostilities and continuing right through the war itself. Now, this crowd was of an entirely different calibre to the previous occult practitioners - it included highly qualified scientists; physicists, chemists, not to mention academic researchers and historians.'
'The point being?' Jolene asked with a forced but even tone.
Jackson's voice was low and had a hint of tension.
'As I have already indicated, in order to infiltrate the government programmes of the day and gain positions of power and influence.'
'So were these guys Nazis?' Dale asked, looking somewhat perplexed.
A grimace flashed across Jackson's face.
'No, not at all, it was the State Departments earliest assessment that they did what was necessary in order to take advantage of the personalities that could deliver positions of power to them. It was all about political manoeuvrings. Put it this way, I didn't play quarter-back in my high-school years because I enjoyed football so much, it was simply a good way to get introduced to girls!'
Kappel summed up with a rather irritable edge to his voice.
'So they recognised the ascendancy of the DAP which became the NSDAP and effectively infiltrated the Nazi power circles via occult groups in order to insert their own people into positions of power.'
'Exactly!' Jackson exclaimed, slapping the desk and sitting back.
'Why? What was their ultimate objective?'
'Well,' Jackson pondered, pursing his lips, 'this part is wholly conjecture, but I would suggest that it is very clear that they had some form of grand design that had nothing to do with Nazism per se. As I mentioned, during the early years the State Department had surmised that this group intended to somehow usurp the Nazi Party for their own objectives, however, if you consider their involvement in the later special weapons programmes and the lack of evidence to support any real resistance to the Nazis, then it has to be said that their motivations are not entirely clear. In spite of that, why go to all that trouble unless somebody somewhere was benefiting from it?'
Gazing unfocussed for a moment as if he had just had the thought for the very first time, Jackson distractedly continued.
'Regardless of their real motives, it has to be said that the same scientists introduced by the Vrilerinnen became incredibly prominent in programmes specifically concerned with cutting edge technology; V1 flying bombs, V2 rockets, jet engines, all sorts of things.'
Kappel became rather intense and leaned forward, his face becoming huge and distorted on the screen.
'What other weapons do you know about?'
'Well, I don't know,' Jackson shrugged, 'the documents I can access do not include that information although there may be something in the compartmented files that I don't have access to yet.'
The room became silent as they watched the screen, Kappel started to chew the inside of his cheek, an unusual sign of nervousness.
'How sure are you that this group was associated with the Sun of the Sleepless?'
'Only as far the State Department and subsequent OSS agents documented their own facts from the 1920's through to the 1940's. It appears that the Vril Society may have been just a cover for Maria, even though it could have been legitimate in its own right, but certainly, she infiltrated it and installed her own people, maybe all of the Vrilerinnen psychics for all I know. However, that is where the book comes into it, it references the Sun of the Sleepless group directly and she specifically used it as a kind of spiritual guide for initiates.'
Jackson eased back in his chair as he spoke.
'Interestingly, it is not written in Latin or German as you might expect, but appears to have been authored in antiquated English.'
Having considered the thought, Jackson sat forward and planted his forearms on the table, his hands flitting about in rhythm with his exposition.
'Now, Maria was already being taken at face value, babbling about messages from an alien race that allegedly came to Earth which at the time, was identified as the original source of the Aryan race that later became the Sumerians and via a number of improbable incarnations provided the pure blood for what would become Hitler's idealised society, hence the early interest from that quarter. With people already buying into that tall story, she really had no need to try and add legitimacy by referencing this Sun of the Sleepless cult, so, the logical conclusion is that she was part of the Sun of the Sleepless.'
Kappel nodded and looked thoughtful.
'Hold for a moment!'
The screen suddenly went black as the signal was interrupted and the conference room fell silent except for the gentle humming of the air conditioning system. Dale looked quizzically at Jackson, but absent-mindedly shook his head, he grinned unsurely, frowning at Jolene who had started reading her portfolio of papers once again, not noticing his stare as she engrossed herself in the material.
Jackson had seen his movement.
'What's up?'
'No, nothing,' Dale grinned as he glanced quickly at Jolene before shaking his head, 'nothing.'
The screen flickered to life again and Kappel sat with his fingers clasped together.
'Jackson, I want you study the book as quickly as possible and let me have your full appraisal within twenty-four hours. I want as much information as you can wring out of
Dirigo Lux
and any other reference material that relates to it. I want to know the name of the cow that the leather binding came from; I want to know the ingredients of the ink and what the printer had for breakfast. More importantly, I want to know all about this Sun of the Sleepless group. Who was in it? What happened to it? Everything and anything, do I make myself clear?'
'- but sir, I'm not an analyst, my role is to make facts accessible -'
Kappel waved a dismissive hand.
'That is all I'm asking you to do Jackson, and right now you are what we need you to be, so just do what you do!'
Although nodding in acceptance, Jackson's concerns were evidenced by a tell-tale sign as he started to bite at his lower lip. He just was not sure that he had enough information to be able to present a clear picture.
'Gentlemen, I am placing you directly under the authority of Officer Jolene Lovell, formerly of the Marine Corps where she held the rank of Captain, so accord her the respect she deserves. She will task you as she sees fit so I do not want to hear any whining about the chain of command; she's smarter and tougher than the two of you put together and her experience in the field both as a Marine and as an Agency Officer is reason enough for you to do as she says.'
Glancing between Jackson and Jolene, Dale noted that the recipient of the Deputy Director's praise did not seem particularly honoured by the glowing endorsement. He quickly turned back to the screen as Kappel spoke again.
'Dale, you will assist Jolene in her investigations, starting with this Gertrude Verker girl - about whom you have not yet submitted a report for your earlier visit I notice - light a fire under it. I want to know where she bought the book, I what to know where the book came from, I want to know the identity of every person that has touched that book since it surfaced. Now, you have your new orders so, go and get started. Time is of the essence gentlemen!'
There was a slight pause.
'Jolene, please remain behind.'
After a moment of hesitation, the two men stood and Jackson gathered together his coat and jacket ready to vacate the conference room. They walked out together in silence, pushing through the glass doors and feeling the air sighing around them as the pressure seal was broken, exiting into the corridor from the small lobby area. Both men wore a somewhat dazed expression, as if tumbling out of a cinema after the end credits had rolled and they took a couple of seconds to gather themselves.
'Coffee?' Dale asked as Jackson slipped his jacket on and shrugged it into a comfortable position.
Jackson gazed about him, blinking slightly as his eyes watered and adjusted to the slightly different atmosphere outside of the conference room.
'That's the friendliest question I've heard since I arrived in this country!'
He looked back over his shoulder and saw Staff Sergeant Stanley and PFC Oliver pulling the double doors to the conference room closed again, Stanley rearranging his cuffs as they settled themselves into guard positions either side of the entrance. Jackson nodded but elicited no response.
'Dale, before we get that coffee, how about showing me where the mens' room is!'
The younger man exclaimed a chuckle and held out an arm to invite Jackson along the corridor.
'Step right this way -'
Truck Stop
Karl Whelton was a thief, although he did not like to think of himself as a common criminal as such, more of an opportunist with an eye for the ultimate bargain courtesy of the five-fingered discount. The way that he looked at it, when chance offered him an easy way of making some money without really having to work for it, then he would have to be a fool to turn away from it - no matter the consequences to the people that he stole from.
Whether it was a wallet protruding from the back pocket of some guy in the pub or a purse nestled in the top of a woman's handbag at the supermarket, it was all fair game as far as he was concerned. If there was an opportunity to steal something, then he would take it. He had managed to steal somebody else's property practically every day of his life, whether shoplifting sweets from the corner shop as a juvenile delinquent, or breaking into a family's house to remove their television and DVD player as a hardened burglar, each new day had presented yet another offering.
It had just turned half past six in the morning in England and the temperature was well below freezing. Karl crept through the windswept truck stop, tiptoeing between the heavy goods vehicles and articulated lorries that had parked up for the night, their drivers resting in their cabs or bunking down in a cheap local motel. Having spent the vast majority of the night and a few of the small hours of the morning in a 'lock-in' in a local pub - an after-hours gathering with some of his cronies - Karl had cadged a lift from one of his mates to head out 'on the rob'.
They had cruised the Merseyside streets of Knowsley, looking for opportunities; a house window left open for ventilation that might offer access to electronic gadgetry, or perhaps a parked tradesman's van that might contain expensive tools and equipment. However, things were not going as planned, the cold night had ensured that most windows were closed up tight and every van that they saw had the same stickers plastered over their rear windows -'No tools stored overnight'- but Karl really did not want to go home empty handed. He wanted something to show for his efforts so far.
It was his mate, Graham, who had come up with the idea that had led them out of the suburbs. He had suggested that they drive over to a busy overnight truck stop just off the M62 motorway, aiming to check out any trucks that were not properly sealed up for the night, or even snicking off the padlocks on any container doors to see what was inside and worth stealing, after all, there was a pair of bolt-croppers in the boot of the car just begging to be used.
For fifteen minutes Karl had picked his way through the parking lot without much luck. Even the large amount of alcohol he had consumed was beginning to wear off and he could really feel the cold start to bite. On the verge of giving up, he suddenly stopped; he could see a very likely target. In fact, he thought, it might prove to be very lucrative!
The heavy goods vehicle had tarpaulin sides, held in place with tightened pull cords, easy to undo and break through! Even though there were no markings on the sides of the trailer, the cab itself had the livery of an electronics firm which to Karl, could possibly mean that the trailer was stocked with lots of lovely toys just waiting to be picked up, carried away and sold down at the pub for a clear profit.
He sidled up to the trailer and using the karaoke player inside of his head, started to sing along to the lyrics of his favourite song. It had been his theme tune as a youngster growing up in the punk rock era in the late 1970's and early '80s and now, well, it was practically a job description.
I love to rob and I love to steal,
I'll have your purse or your car's spare wheel,
I'm a one-man crime wave, I'm a wily thief
I'll nip inside and finish off your meal.
Karl started picking at the cords around the lower corner of one of the side tarpaulins at the rear of the trailer, threading the broad straps through the grips to loosen enough of an edge to force his head through the gap.
I'll have your telly and remote control,
In through the kitchen, for the last bread roll,
I'm from the council, or the water board,
I'll grab your jewellery and your gran's fur stole.
He peered in, the light from the sodium lamps dotted about the truck stop filtering through the partially transparent fibre glass roof of the trailer. The deck was empty except for a single large chest clamped to the floor in the middle of the cavernous cargo space; he needed a closer look and continued releasing the tarpaulin straps.
I'm on a job, most every night,
If you're not in bed, you'll have a fright,
I'll let you sleep, no need to worry,
Just stay in bed, don't make me fight.
Karl pushed the tarpaulin flap up and started to scrabble inside, wriggling up into the trailer, weaselling his wiry frame through the gap and pushing and pulling himself over the edge. He stood up and tottered to one side before catching himself, the exertion of crawling inside had magnified the effects of alcohol in his blood and he felt a little light headed. He quickly regained his senses as he saw his prize before him.
If it's not nailed down, I'll take it home,
The Queen's best Crown, or her favourite throne,
Once I see what you've got, I'll plan a visit,
Keep your damn dog quiet, or I'll have his bone.
As he neared the large chest he realised how big it really was, especially now that he was standing in front of it rather than looking up at it from ground level outside of the trailer. It was at least seven feet tall, just as wide and probably around fourteen feet long. Rather pointlessly, he gave it a shove to see if it would slide but then remembered that it was clamped to the deck. He blearily gazed round, looking for a crow bar or at least something to jemmy the crate open. Nothing.
Karl wandered around the wooden box, running one hand along the sides and suddenly yelped as a sizeable splinter from the wood stabbed deep into one of his fingers.
'Bastard thing,' he muttered as he shoved the finger into his mouth.
I'm havin' it, I'm nickin' it!
I'm havin' it, I'm nickin' it!
Rounding the corner of the crate near the front of the trailer, Karl stopped abruptly, suddenly confused. In the dim light it appeared that somebody was standing in front of him, a large dark figure, apparently dressed in black from head to foot except for what seemed to be two small white orbs at eye level.
Just as Karl realised that he was standing in front of a man wearing a full face black ski mask, he raised a finger and pointed weakly at the apparition as his mouth uttered the last coherent words he would ever produce, without even managing to finish the intended question.
'Who the -'
The man was quick, much too quick for Karl. He was also practised. Whereas Karl would usually windmill his arms in a fight, flailing them in wide arcs with the sole intention of landing a single blow and then scarpering away, the man before him knew exactly what he was doing.
It took less than a second for Karl's limply outstretched hand to be grabbed and the arm pulled straight, for the body of the man to swivel and cut across him, his leg acting as a fulcrum over which Karl now found himself tumbling, his assailant's free arm shoving him down toward the deck.
The impact with the trailer floor reverberated through Karl's whole body and he felt the vice-like grip on his wrist twist his arm high up his back, causing a searing pain to burst forth from his elbow joint and forearm as the bones were levered into an unnatural position, the shoulder muscles screaming as they were stretched beyond their usual range of articulation. The wrist was released but the hold was quickly replaced by the full weight of a knee that smacked down and drilled him tighter against the rough wooden cargo floor.
The culmination of Karl's parasitic life was marked by a sudden strain in his neck as his head was violently jerked backward, grating the bones of his topmost vertebrae. This was immediately followed by a vicious two-handed twisting motion of his whole cranium, powerful hands gripping his prematurely balding skull, the action of which produced a meaty crick-click that could probably have been heard from outside the trailer. As it was, Karl was not in a position to make any further sounds, at least not by his own volition.
Having lost sight of his accomplice some twenty minutes previously, Graham had finished off the can of beer that he had remembered was tucked away in the glove box. He'd also munched his way through the packet of salt and vinegar crisps that he had slipped into his pocket back at the pub. With nothing to eat or drink to idle away the time, he was getting bored; irritably bored, definitely cold and not a little anxious. Drivers would be waking soon to get up for their early morning journeys to beat the first of the rush-hour traffic; he really did not want to be sitting around in the lorry park waiting for Karl.
'Where the fuck is he?' Graham thought.
The headlamps of a large transit van were switched on and Graham found himself in a blaze of light, people were starting to move, he could see a couple of dark figures darting between lorry cabs, snaking between the trailers.
'Bugger this!' Graham said to himself.
He started the engine and urgently accelerated away, keen to put as much distance as possible between himself and the lorry park, aware that Karl's escapades did not always go quite to plan. Within three minutes, Karl had been left behind for good by Graham, the now inert body rapidly cooling in the back of a heavy goods vehicle as the black clad man pulled off the ski mask he had used to keep his head warm during the cold night and hopped out of the trailer, attending to the holding ties of the flapping tarpaulin and gently threading and tightening them back into place.
If Graham had been aware of the malevolent pairs of eyes that tracked the movement of his glowing red rear lights, he would have probably depressed his accelerator with a little more vigour. Certainly, if he had known the fate that had befallen his erstwhile companion, his tyres would have been squealing against the rough tarmac rather than just rumbling.
In spite of his misgivings, Graham was now safely away and possessed of enough ignorance of events to ensure that he would attract no further attention from the group of men and women that seemed to decamp on cue from two transit vans painted in differing types of livery and the heavy goods vehicle that now acted as Karl's burial cortège.
As for Karl, he received no eulogy or obituary and his associates never did find out what happened to him, or in truth, particularly cared. Some suspected that he had fallen foul of drug dealers; others assumed that he was on the run from the law. Either way, most people that knew him considered that whatever had really happened, he'd probably had it coming.