The Rods of Santur

By AJ Angler

Sam Hunter, an agent for a private company that performs risky, covert tasks in the world’s hotspots, is hired to obtain a mysterious artifact from a mountain village in Pakistan’s Northern Areas. The object, one of three so-called Rods of Santur, has great mystical and medicinal value to the townsfolk. His client is Klaus Eiger, whose uncle Karl Maria Wiligut was the advisor to Heinrich Himmler, head of the SS in Nazi Germany. Despite questioning his boss’s judgement, Sam carries out his orders. He is distressed to find that his actions have hurt innocent people. And when he discovers the use his client has for the object, he realizes that he has made a grave mistake. Rectifying the situation will put those dear to him in jeopardy. But if he doesn’t stop Eiger, an entire race will be in danger from a resurrection of Himmler’s Final Solution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Smythe
• Release date: Jul 23, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466055957

AJ Angler

AJ Angler is a writer of thrillers with the protagonist Sam Hunter. AJ Angler likes topics that connect to religion, science, and history.

Book preview

Prologue

On Saturday, March 30, 1945, the day before Easter, the clicking of Karl Maria Wiligut’s heels echoed through the Obergruppenführersaal, the Hall of the Supreme Generals, a great circular room in the north tower of Wewelsburg Castle in central Germany. For the last time, he took his position at the center of the Black Sun.

His Black Sun.

Under his direction a decade ago, renovators of the castle had inlaid a sun wheel four meters across in the marble floor. The twelve black spokes resulted from the superposition of three swastikas at different angles, each crook corresponding to an hour of the clock.

Until yesterday, Himmler’s massive round table had dominated the room. Coats of arms of the dozen Gruppenführers, Himmler’s SS-equivalent to the Arthurian Knights, had adorned the walls. One remained. A pair of uniformed Schutzstaffel corporals banged a wooden ladder into place to reach it.

They were working with haste; the United States Third Army was approaching.

Wiligut moved to the window and looked out over the lush rolling Teutoburg Forest. On its eastern flanks, where now stood homes, shops, restaurants, and roads, tens of thousands of noble Germanic warriors had defeated Varus’ Roman legions. In his mind’s eye, he could see his ancestors advancing under their multicolored tribal standards, the tattered Roman troops fleeing in confusion, never to enter these ancient, holy German lands again.

To the west, the late afternoon sun strained to penetrate the smoke and dust kicked up by great mechanized armies on the move.

Wiligut turned from the window. Once the symbol of SS glory, Wewelsburg Castle sat almost empty. He grunted in disgust. Where were the vaunted supermen who would fight to the death for the cause? Not that he was a warrior. Psychic advisor to Himmler, specialist in occult matters, Karl Maria Wiligut dealt with matters of policy and ritual, as should a descendant of a long line of secret German kings that stretched back to prehistory.

A tall, gaunt man strode into the room. Instead of his usual uniform with the Oak Leaves and golden Close Combat Clasp, SS-Sturmbannführer Heinz Macher was dressed in peasant’s clothing. Behind him came a dozen similarly attired men.

Good evening, Herr Macher, Wiligut said.

There’s nothing good about it, Macher snapped. We spent three hours getting through the enemy cordon. He lifted his head and looked down at Wiligut. I’m not happy to find you here.

Wiligut shrank back. As chief of the 16th SS-Kompanie of the SS Panzer-Grenadier-Regiment, Macher exuded authority. Although the two men held similar ranks in the SS, Wiligut had obtained his through Himmler’s patronage, a fact that Macher reinforced with every disdainful glance.

Macher scanned the room. You have two hours to bring items specified on the list to the Ceremonial Hall in the east wing. When preparations are complete, we will set fire to the hall and demolish the castle. Nothing must be left in the north tower.

He marched out.

The last of the coats of arms disappeared out the door, dragged away by men who should have been awed by the emblems. Wiligut stared at the bare stone walls. All his plans…destroyed. The center of the Aryan race would soon be in the hands of the invaders.

Much as he would regret leaving the castle, he approved of the plans to destroy it. Recognizing defeat at last, Hitler had wanted to put all Germany to the torch, to end the Third Reich in a grand Wagnerian inferno. Wiligut could not see the point in laying waste to the country itself. But he supported Himmler’s decision to demolish the castle. The allies must not be allowed to get their hands on the documents and artifacts stored in the many rooms.

And, especially, they must be prevented from capturing the two Rods of Santur in the crypt below him.

The thought spurred him to action. He hurried across the room to the secret stairs, rendered visible by the removal of the great tapestry that had adorned the eastern wall mere hours ago. The steps wound around the turret and emerged in a circular, windowless room. He turned on the electric lights, bulbs that glowed red instead of white. The room was the Realm of the Dead, where coats of arms of SS knights slain by the Allied enemy were burnt in elaborate ceremony underneath the ornate swastika in the centre of the domed ceiling.

Fourteen wooden chairs ringed the perimeter: one for him, one for Himmler, eleven for the living knights, and the symbolic empty chair awaiting Himmler’s next selection.

Near the far wall lay two angular objects wrapped in burlap and ready for transport. Almost his height when upright, the Rods of Santur were made of a smooth, black substance, some type of metal judging by the clang they made when they contacted something solid. Sharp-edged, and thick as his forearm, each had two right-angle bends that sent the tips in opposite directions. Placing one rod across the other formed a Nazi swastika.

In many cultures, the swastika pattern represented the sun. In others, life or harmony. Although he dared not voice the thought, Wiligut had always resented Hitler’s appropriation of the swastika for the National Socialist German Workers’ Party. To Wiligut, the swastika should have remained part of the Circle of Santur, referring to the second sun that he believed had graced the sky some 330,000 years ago. Santur and Sol, the current sun, had interacted, and torn at each other with their terrible gravities. Before being consumed by Sol, elements of the dying star had showered the Earth. Wiligut was confident that one of his distant ancestors had forged the rods from the cosmic material, a substance unlike any other on Earth.

He squatted to pick up a rod. He groaned as he straightened—the result of the rod’s weight and awkward configuration. He staggered backward, almost stepping on the second rod.

The rod slipped from his fingers. It crashed to the floor, its tip overlapping its partner. Sparks erupted, accompanied by crackling sounds and the smell of sulfur. A wisp of white smoke seeped out of the burlap at the point of intersection. Wiligut reached for the rod and cried out. His arm recoiled as if slammed by a high-voltage electric arc. An open flame burst from the point where the rods touched.

He grabbed one of the chairs and used its legs to wrench the rods apart. The flame and sparks died instantly. The burlap covering appeared undamaged, but the stone floor underneath had cracked.

He waited a few seconds then leaned down to poke a tentative finger against the burlap. Nothing. Relieved, he sat on the chair and rubbed his right bicep. His entire arm felt weak and jittery.

He contemplated the rods. What if the fire had consumed or deformed them? He shuddered from the thought that he might have caused their destruction. His father, Gustav, had entrusted them to his charge. Gustav had traced the history of the two-piece artifact from 1236 when the Samogotians used it to repel the Brothers of the Sword at the Battle of Schaulen, through its possession by Gottard Kettler, Master of the Teutonic Order in 1557, to its residence underneath Pöide Church on Saaremaa Island in the Baltic Sea.

Wiligut had been so captivated with the magic of the rods that he’d persuaded Himmler that they be incorporated in the Schutzstaffel ceremonies at the castle. But now, with the castle hours away from immolation, he had to get them to safety. He considered calling for two of the corporals to carry the rods out the escape tunnel but decided to keep the removal of the rods secret. He’d do it himself.

An opening in the wall at the south end of the crypt led to a passageway that descended beneath the castle foundations. Dragging a rod across the stone floor, Wiligut followed the cramped corridor for close to a hundred meters. It ended at a steel door. He laid the rod on the ground while he worked the latch. As he held the door open with his foot, he labored to maneuver the rod through the opening.

The door slammed behind him with an ominous thud. He gave it a yank and was dismayed to discover that he couldn’t open it from the outside. He swore at himself for his carelessness. He was in a long tunnel lit by bare blue bulbs at thirty meter intervals. Wooden planks formed walls and ceiling; the floor was hard-packed dirt. A medieval escape route, it would deposit him in the forest well away from the castle. To return for the second rod, he’d have to circle around, follow the driveway to the top of the hill, and re-enter the castle by the main gates. He hoisted one end of the rod to waist level and trudged on. Behind him, the tip a gouged a channel in the dirt.

A rusted steel grate barred the tunnel’s end. It opened into a natural cave, a crevice at the bottom of the two-story high cliff of bare rock that formed the south face of the castle’s mound. The best place to leave the rods, Wiligut decided, would be just inside the grate. Macher’s explosives would bring down the castle, burying the entrance to the tunnel in the crypt under a mound of rubble. Behind the steel bars, well back in the cave, the rods would be secure until he could retrieve them in less troubled times.

He unlocked the grate, crawled through, and let it latch behind him. As he felt his way in the dark toward the opening in the rock face, he cursed himself for not bringing a torch. Outside the cave, he realized he’d misjudged the hour. The small amount of sky visible through the canopy was a deep purple. Already a couple of stars shone. The brightest, Spica, the spring star in Virgo, peeked over the trees toward the southeast. He had a beacon in the sky, but scarce illumination on the forest floor. He could barely distinguish the trees from the gaps between them.

He paused to solidify the directions in his mind. The rock face ran east-west at this point. In one direction the cliff would soon curve away from the castle to Externstein, the distinctive rock formation that he had divined to be the ancestral site of Irmanism, the Aryan race’s most ancient religion. If he went the other way, he’d hit the road to the castle.

He had taken only two steps before he tripped on a log. His face slammed against a rough tree trunk and he fell to his knees. He swore, in frustration as much as pain. His right cheek felt like it had been ripped by bear claws. He staggered to his feet. Trying to find the cliff, he swept his left hand through bramble bushes, only to bump his knuckles against a stump. He couldn’t be very far from the cliff. He must have turned when he tripped.

Fighting panic, he stood still for a few seconds. Stifling blackness surrounded him. The trees had closed ranks above, and he could see no stars.

Guide me, Krist, he mumbled, appealing to the ancient Germanic god whose name Christians had appropriated for their own savior. He could have used Santur’s light now.

After what had to be an hour of blind stumbling, he conceded that he had bungled the job. He had no idea where he was. He’d saved only one of the rods. He strove to remember exactly what Macher had said. Was it three hours to get the important papers into the east wing? Macher’s team would probably burn them in the double fireplaces before setting off the explosives.

By now the fires would have started. He could follow the smoke to the castle. He sniffed the air, but could identify only the scents of dirt and moss. He felt his way around a tree and inhaled again. There…a foreign smell. But it wasn’t wood smoke. He turned his head, sampling the air at different angles.

Tobacco.

He took a step, his feet crackling through the twigs on the forest floor. The tobacco smell was stronger.

American tobacco.

He heard two clacks and froze at the familiar sound of a rifle being readied.

Halt. Come out slowly. An English voice, tinged with tension, came from somewhere ahead.

From farther away. What’s up, Eddie? Chipmunks attacking again?

The original voice. Someone’s there. Louder. Come out of the trees, damn it.

"Nicht schießen," Wiligut shouted. He understood English, but why give these Americans any leverage? He raised his hands and shuffled forward. A torch snapped on, its light filtered by the trees. He stepped into the open and a second light hit him, from a different direction. He blinked in the glare.

What are you doing here? the original voice said.

Wiligut was standing on the edge of the road. To his right, he could make out the distant sounds of motorized vehicles, no longer muffled by the forest.

Answer me, damn it. Where did you come from?

Wiligut used his forearm to shield his eyes. "Nien. Ich spreche nicht englisch."

You know what a bullet between the eyes means?

A second soldier stepped into the light and thrust a rifle toward Wiligut’s chest. Move. The rifle’s tip wiggled, a universal language.

Wiligut took two steps to his right, and the sky lit up. A tremendous boom rent the night, then another. A series of blasts hurled debris over the top of the trees, their tops lit by a bright glow from nearby.

What the hell?someone yelled.

Wiligut sunk to his knees. Macher had blown Wewelsburg Castle. The second Rod of Santur was lost.

Chapter 1

Paris, France

Monday, December 10, 2010

5:00 a.m., CET

The climber pressed his forehead against the outside of the steel netting which enclosed the Eiffel Tower’s highest observation deck. With his fingers clutching the mesh, he fought to catch his breath. His toes rested on the narrow ledge two hundred and seventy-six meters up on the southeast face. He glanced at the eastern horizon, trying to gauge the time until sunrise.

Are you going to stand there all bloody day?

The question came from below, where Sam’s partner, Jamal, waited for him to move out of the way. Sam took a step to the side. Gripping tightly with his right hand, he reached down to take hold of one of Jamal’s shoulder straps and help him gain the ledge.

Two hours of effort for two minutes of excitement, Jamal said. His normally deep voice betrayed his anxiety. You could have picked a better caper than this.

Come on. Have I ever let you down?

Let me count the ways.

Sam forced a grin. With his heels overhanging the ledge, his calves were starting to cramp. He dangled his arm, shaking his hand to coax blood back to his fingers. A gust of wind grabbed at the pack on his back. A flash of panic gripped him as his body swung out and a foot slipped off its perch. He reined himself in, and held tight until the air settled.

You do know they cheated in that Bond film, Jamal said.

Huh?

The girl was running up the stairs, just ahead of Bond. He was firing at her, remember? But the top of the stairs are way down there.

He gestured with his chin. The Eiffel Tower’s staircase ended at the second observation deck, less than half-way up. Jamal and Sam had climbed the rest of the way, ascending the outside of the world’s largest jungle gym.

She jumped from the top, obviously, Jamal continued. Bond saw her sail past. So he couldn’t have been right behind her.

It had been the Bond film that had given Sam the idea. He and Jamal had just finished a routine mission in Paris, facilitating an under-the-radar meeting between the head of Hamas and the Israeli Prime Minister. In the hotel afterward, A View To Kill had been playing on the television behind the bar. After watching the Bond Girl’s jump, he knew what he wanted to do for their traditional mission-completion celebration. From the Paris office of Global Construction Consultants, the front for his real employer, Strategic Recovery Services, he’d obtained jump chutes. Just after two this morning, he’d brought Jamal to the tower and made his decision known.

This is the most juvenile stunt you’ve ever proposed, Jamal said.

You get to pick the next one.

If I’m lucky, I’ll never have to work with you again.

On the previous end-of-mission jaunt, they’d also performed a dive. Holding a large anchor between them, they’d dropped one hundred and sixty five feet to the bottom of a fjord in Norway before pulling inflatable vests and rocketing to the surface. Sam was as leery of the deep as Jamal was of heights. This feat would even the score.

The tinge of pinkish-grey on the horizon warned of the sun’s imminent arrival. It was time to go. He and Jamal struggled to turn around on the tiny ledge. The bulky pack forced him to lean outward, and he had to stretch back to keep hold of the cage.

He glanced at his partner. Although Jamal had griped all the way, Sam could see the excitement in his eyes. Sam grinned. Nothing would match the elation they’d feel when they reached the ground.

The target area, the Parc du Champ de Mars, stretched in front of them like a space shuttle landing strip. The intricate geometry of pathways through the lawns and bushes would provide multiple escape routes, and the greenery would afford cover.

He’d been up the tower before, albeit on the inside of the steel enclosure. The view always thrilled him—the arc of the Seine over his left shoulder, the immense sweep of the Palais de Chaillot behind him, the buildings of Paris looking as if a powerful entity had mowed them to the same height. He had to grimace, though, at the Montparnasse Tower in the distance, which stood like a giant, dark monolith against the brightening sky. The town council must have been asleep when someone okayed its construction.

Bloody hell, Jamal said. We’ve got company.

Sam looked down past his toes. A police car was moving along the Avenue toward the tower, its hood lights blinking. The traditional two-tone siren drifted up from below. The car stopped at the base of the tower.

Shit, he said.

Tiny figures emerged from the car and strode out of sight under the tower’s girders. In the distance, more blinking lights were converging on the tower.

Sam looked at Jamal. We’d better go now. You head to the right. I’ll go left. We might as well split the opposition. See you back at the hotel.

Sam?

Yeah?

I’ll get you back for this. Jamal leaned forward and pushed off.

For one long second, Sam watched him fall. The pilot chute popped out, pulling the black main chute open. The rectangular ram-air parachute deployed properly, and Jamal curved away to the west.

As Sam prepared to let go, the tower’s giant flood lights snapped on. He paused, momentarily blinded.

Commotion erupted behind him. Two men ran out of the elevator, bellowing in French. One of them jammed fingers through the mesh and hooked his shoulder strap.

Let go, damn it, Sam yelled. He shook his shoulders free.

The guards were shouting. He got a glimpse of what might have been a gun. Now or never.

He tipped forward and jumped. The horizon tilted, and he had to stabilize himself in an instant of weightlessness. He pulled the cord and felt the upward jerk, followed by buffeting as the ram-air chute exploded out of his pack, dragged out by the pilot chute.

Who-ee! The wind filled the chute and began to drift him to the east. He looked up and swore. He was flying a yellow parachute, a twenty-foot wide sign advertising his presence. Some clown back at the supply room was going to pay for this.

He looked around, but didn’t see Jamal. That was good; perhaps Jamal had escaped.

The wind eased as he neared the ground. Circling, he saw the police car backing away from the tower. Its siren resumed, reminding him of countless old French movies. The car maneuvered to get underneath him.

The Seine loomed, gray and glistening. He veered out over the water. Behind him, he heard brakes squeal. The siren’s pitch dropped as the police car reversed direction, presumably heading for the bridge.

The water seemed to draw him down, and for an instant, he pictured having to ditch in the river. He swooped low gathering speed, then pulled up, trying to make it to the north shore on willpower alone. Tour boats lined the far bank, across his path. He came down on one, skipping along the flat roof. His momentum carried him past and he leapt for the cement quay.

The chute billowed behind him, and he hovered for a split second before landing. He hit the quick release and ran out from under the descending yellow fabric.

A high cement wall faced him. Looking to his left, he saw the flashing lights of two police cars crossing the bridge. He ran to his right. A ramp curved up from the quay to the Avenue de New York, the roadway that paralleled the Seine. If he took that, he’d meet the cop cars coming down.

Bypassing the ramp, he raced under a footbridge that could have taken him back across the river, had he time to climb the stairs. Taking advantage of a row of trees that shielded the quay from the Avenue, he dashed toward a tour boat and leapt over the iron rail.

The stern half of the boat contained rows of open-air seats, four abreast. He ran through them, flung open the cabin door, and ducked inside. Some thirty rows of double seats lined the windows of the cabin. He jogged down the central aisle and braked to a stop. One of the seats was occupied. A girl’s surprised face peeked out from beneath a blanket. She opened her mouth, but Sam held a finger to his lips.

"Excusez moi, mademoiselle."

He hurried down the cabin and slid into a seat. He sank to the floor, sat back against the wall, and pulled his knees to his chin.

Outside, sirens, car honks, and men’s shouts competed for attention. Inside the tour boat’s cabin, both Sam’s breathing and heartbeat seemed louder than any of them.

He felt supercharged, his nerves firing at a hundred and ten percent. The tension, the excitement—nothing matched the thrill of the chase. Of course, the authorities were going to find him. They’d have the parachute. Where else could he have gone, except for a swim?

He heard a shuffling sound, then a giggle, followed by a shhh and another giggle. There must have been another person under the blanket.

Sam chuckled. He’d stumbled into the classic adventure for two young lovers. Sex on the Seine.

The boat rocked, and footsteps clomped on the deck. The door opened and someone started down the center aisle. A flashlight beam swished back and forth. The searcher could hardly avoid the couple, Sam thought. The lovers’ adventure was about to end badly.

That was something that should never happen in Paris!

Sam stood up and waved his hands. Here I am, monsieur, he called. I give up. He squinted as the beam from the man’s flashlight swept across his face. With his hands in the air, Sam walked toward the light. As he passed the blanket, he whispered, "Bon chance."

*****

Sam sat on a steel bench that was bolted to the floor of a dingy cell. On the bench across from him, a disheveled man lay, face up, mouth open. His snores would keep half of Paris awake.

Sam reclined on the bench. His feet overhung the end, a common fate for a six-foot-four man. Being locked in a Parisian jail cell wasn’t the greatest way to end the adventure. But it had been a blast, nonetheless. First the climb, then the jump, then the pursuit.

The Paris police hadn’t reacted as favorably, though. After fingerprinting and photographing him, they’d confiscated his personal effects, belt, and shoelaces. They’d refused his request to make a telephone call.

Judging by the rumbles in his stomach, Sam figured the time of day to be close to noon. An hour ago he’d repeated his request to use the phone, and demanded the right to notify the American embassy. His captain would consider it, the constable had said, a deadpan expression on his face.

Sam was still awaiting the results of the deliberations.

He closed his eyes and put his senses on autopilot. His mind registered the wino coughing twice, turning onto his side, and resuming his snores. A while later, Sam opened his eyes at the thud of the man rolling onto the floor. The man waddled to the wall and urinated in the corner of the cell. Mumbling to himself, he returned to the bench, and lay down. Within seconds he was asleep.

A door opened in the corridor. Sam stood as footsteps approached. The constable appeared, followed by a man in a business suit.

Jamal, Sam exclaimed. How—

Mr. Hunter, Jamal said. The ambassador is very concerned about your conduct. You are an embarrassment to your government.

The ambassador?

Jamal lowered his voice. Dyson is furious. In fact, he said he’s not going to bail you out this time.

Come on, Sam said. He can’t leave me here.

His exact words were, ‘That goddamned Hunter buzzed the tower once too often.’ He reprimanded me for not keeping an eye on you.

Sam grinned. I don’t suppose you told him you watched me from two feet away all the way up the tower.

Let’s say that I didn’t volunteer any information. Jamal pulled a cell phone from his pocket. He spoke to the guard in French, received a nod, then pressed a few buttons. He passed the phone to Sam.

Hold for Mr. Dyson, the female voice on the line said.

Here goes. Sam braced for one of his boss’s trademark Scottish expletives.

Hunter, goddammit. I’ve been trying to reach you for the past three hours.

Goddammit? Is that a Scottish expression, Dyson? Sam launched one of his deflecting maneuvers. They took my cell phone. I told them you might be calling. I think you should put in a complaint on my behalf—

Shut up.

Sam rolled his eyes at Jamal, who was doing his best to look disgusted. He waited for Dyson to continue.

I should let you cool yer tackle there until… Dyson’s stopped, then resumed with only a trace of exasperation. You’ve got another assignment, Hunter. Vienna. You’re booked on Air France flight 504 at 14:20.

Today?

Of course, today. Lafleur has the briefing notes. She’ll meet you at the airport.

Okay. Sam listened to dead air for long enough that he wondered if Dyson had left. He pulled the phone away from his ear, then heard Dyson’s voice.

Sam?

Startled, Sam glanced at Jamal as he returned the phone to his ear. Dyson never referred to him by his first name. Jamal raised an eyebrow, evidently registering the change in Sam’s demeanor.

Sir?

Dyson’s voice was sober. This mission is important.

Sure, boss. To Dyson, every mission was important.

No. I mean extremely important. It’s a level one-A. Highest priority. Highest security.

There was something Dyson wasn’t saying. Is there anything else you want me to know? Sam asked.

Just follow the client’s instructions to the letter.

Sam cleared his throat. I’m a little restricted in my ability to travel.

Bawhied, Dyson mumbled. Scottish for