Fearful Symmetry: A Thriller

  FEARFUL SYMMETRY

  A Thriller

  Michael McBride

  Fearful Symmetry copyright © 2014 by Michael McBride

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Michael McBride.

  For more information about the author, please visit his website: www.michaelmcbride.net

  Also by Michael McBride

  NOVELS

  Ancient Enemy

  Bloodletting

  Burial Ground

  Innocents Lost

  Predatory Instinct

  Sunblind

  The Coyote

  Vector Borne

  NOVELLAS

  F9

  Remains

  Snowblind

  The Event

  COLLECTIONS

  Category V

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  FEARFUL SYMMETRY

  FEARFUL SYMMETRY

  A Thriller

  Michael McBride

  For Tobin von der Nuell

  Special thanks to Paul Goblirsch, Leigh Haig, John Foley, and Kyle Lybeck at Thunderstorm Books; Shelley Milligan (and hubbie); Gene O’Neill; Matt Schwartz; Jeff Strand; Kimberly Yerina; my amazing family; and all of my friends and readers, without whom this book wouldn’t exist. The author is indebted to several works that proved instrumental in preserving the historical accuracy of his fictitious quest: Himmler’s Crusade: The Nazi Expedition to Find the Origins of the Aryan Race, by Christopher Hale (John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 2003), The Rise of the Fourth Reich: The Secret Societies That Threaten to Take Over America, by Jim Marrs (William Morrow, 2008); The Secret King: The Myth and Reality of Nazi Occultism, by Stephen E. Flowers and Michael Moynihan (Feral House, 2007); and Geheimnis Tibet, the documentary of the 1938 Ernst Schäfer expedition into Tibet, which served as the inspiration for this book.

  Prologue

  Yarlung Tsangpo River Basin

  Motuo County

  Tibet Autonomous Region

  People’s Republic of China

  October 17th

  Today

  The branches of the camphorwoods and elms whipped his cheeks and clawed at his eyes despite his best efforts to shield them with his forearms. The wet leaves threw water into his face. He could barely see the narrow, muddy path through the darkness and the fog and the suffocating forest. Every muscle in his body burned from the exertion and his pulse pounded loudly in his ears. He could barely hear the roar of the river over the storm lashing the upper canopy, which sealed off what little starlight managed to permeate the dense clouds. If he strayed from the trail, he was a dead man. Probably already was. He could feel his lead shrinking by the second and there was nothing he could do about it.

  The Yarlung Tsangpo urged him on with a rumble so loud he could feel it in his chest. The path sloped steeply downward. He slipped in the runoff sluicing across the path and slid into a rhododendron that mercifully allowed him to gain his balance once more.

  A crashing sound behind him.

  He didn’t dare look back. He knew exactly what it meant.

  Whatever separation he had created between them had evaporated.

  He wasn’t going to make it.

  More crashing sounds uphill and to his left. The cracking and snapping of breaking wood. Boughs swayed violently in his peripheral vision.

  He wasn’t going to make it.

  A strobe of lightning froze the world around him like a snapshot. It reflected from the droplets of water hovering around his head, the rivulets draining through the canopy, and the broad, leathery leaves that crowded him from all sides at once. He saw the bend ahead, marked by a pile of stones where a cairn had once stood. The trees beyond it positively shook.

  And then there was nothing but darkness again.

  He wasn’t going to make it.

  Thunder grumbled overhead as he burst from the forest and was assaulted by the driving rain. The wind screamed through the valley, clearing the omnipresent fog and causing the suspension bridge over the river to sway. The rickety wooden construct spanned the six-hundred-foot chasm carved by the Yarlung Tsangpo, three hundred feet straight down. It flowed high and fast and churned with uprooted trees and debris.

  The camphorwoods had grown over and around the bridge. Vines reached from their branches and entwined with the aged ropes. The trees on the steep escarpment below grew up through the gaps between the wooden slats. He had to duck underneath the faded and tattered prayer flags that whipped at his head as he sprinted out onto the bridge. The ruckus of his boots striking the ancient, moss-covered planks was barely audible over the river. He was grateful he couldn’t hear the cracking noises of the warped boards threatening to give way underfoot.

  He drew the ice axes from either hip on his climbing belt without slowing and prayed the picks would be sharp enough to do what needed to be done.

  Five hundred feet.

  He was out of breath and on the verge of collapse. Through the gaps he could see the brown river raging. It was so far down there. So far…

  Four hundred fifty feet.

  A ferocious gust swung the bridge nearly thirty degrees, forcing him to lunge for the rope rail. He slipped on the wet boards. Fell to his knees. Glanced back in time to see a shadow emerge from the shivering branches that concealed the mouth of the path.

  He wasn’t going to make it.

  He pulled himself to his feet and sprinted for everything he was worth.

  Four hundred feet.

  Three hundred fifty.

  He wasn’t going to make it.

  Taking his chances with the river wasn’t an option from this height. The impact would be like landing on concrete. Even if he managed not to break his legs, he’d be swept under before he could catch his breath.

  Another glance back.

  The shadow stood silhouetted against the forest, framed by the ropes. Another shadow materialized from the trees and fell in behind the first. Neither of them moved. They just stood there, watching him.

  Waiting.

  Three hundred feet.

  Halfway.

  Why weren’t they coming after him?

  The answer struck him hard enough to halt his momentum.

  He looked up toward the other end of the bridge in time to see more shadows materialize from the underbrush and eclipse the trail.

  It was all over now.

  He turned and watched his pursuit slowly advance onto the weathered bridge.

  Spun to see the others on the opposite end do the same.

  He’d never stood a chance.

  He leaned over the rope and looked down at the water speeding past far below him. The trunks of massive trees fired downstream. The troughs hid jagged boulders beneath the rising river.

  The wind momentarily abated and the heavy raindrops struck his shoulders like pebbles. He closed his eyes and turned his face skyward.

  When he lowered it again, the cold water drained from his nose and chin. He opened his eyes and appraised the Black Diamond Cobra ice ax in his left hand. It had a reverse-arched carbon fiber shaft with a four-inch serrated pick on one side of the head and a hammer on the other. He adjusted his grip on the rubberized handle, at the end of which a bungee cord connected it to a carabiner hooked to his belt. Hefted its weight. Less than two pounds. Looked at its twin in his right fist.

  If this was the end, then he would at lea
st go down swinging.

  He raised the ice axes high and stared first one way, then the other. A flash of lightning illuminated the hunters at either end of the bridge.

  “What are you waiting for?” he shouted.

  The echo of his voice was swallowed by a clap of thunder.

  And the drumroll of running feet striking the decrepit bridge from both directions at once.

  Part I:

  Hidden Lotus

  One

  Johann Brandt Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology

  Chicago, Illinois

  October 3rd

  Two Weeks Ago

  “You wanted to see me, Dr. Brandt?”

  “Ah, yes. Jordan, my boy. Do come in, won’t you?”

  Dr. Jordan Brooks stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind him. Entering the enormous office of the founder and chief financier of the entire institute never failed to amaze him. It was like a museum unto itself. Enlarged and framed photographs of Dr. Johann Brandt in the field covered the walls. Nearly three-quarters of a century’s worth, Brooks figured. They traversed the spectrum from black and white to color, and all of the myriad shades in between. Brandt was readily identifiable in each of them with his regal profile and almost pompous bearing. He had the presence of a stage actor and stood apart from the other subjects, yet somehow seemed to bring them into the perpetual glow that radiated from him. That and, of course, his trademark black spectacles. The pictures had been taken at major anthropological digs all around the world, from Lake Turkana in Kenya to the Serengeti in Tanzania; the peat bogs of Scotland to the Denisova Cave in Siberia; and from the Nazca Desert in Peru to the petroglyphs of Alberta. Brandt beaming as he held human remains and stone tools and all kinds of relics for the camera to see.

  Climate-controlled display cases on pedestals showcased the partial and complete skulls of the human lineage from the apelike Ardipithecus ramidus and Homo habilis through Homo erectus, Homo neanderthalensis and Homo sapiens idaltu, culminating in Homo sapiens sapiens, the skull of which wore a pair of Brandt’s old glasses to comedic effect. There were fossilized hand and footprints, idols, tools, grave goods, and everything in between. A near-complete history of mankind in one room.

  Yet for as intimidating as the office was, it was nothing compared to the man who had personally collected every artifact, the giant in the field who sat across the room, silhouetted against the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the massive courtyard with the hedge maze filled with bronze statues of all of the incarnations of humanity.

  Dr. Brandt pressed a button on the arm of his wheelchair and the windows changed from crystal-clear to a solarized gold reminiscent of the foil NASA used. He spun the chair to face Brooks, who failed to hide his expression of shock.

  Brandt smiled and waved away his reaction.

  “I know how I look. Believe me, my young friend. I see that same look on my face every time I catch a glimpse of my reflection.” He laughed and the momentary tension vanished. Brandt’s laugh had that effect. It was infectious, and somehow seemed to encapsulate everything he was in a single sound: warm, brilliant, open and honest. No one could meet the man and not be affected by him. He was simply one of those special people who rose above the crowd and disproved the old adage that only the good died young. “Come, come. There’s something I must show you.”

  He thumbed the control knob on his chair and blew past Brooks, who followed him through the maze of pedestals to a short hallway at the back of the office. Brooks had never been back here before and was surprised to watch Brandt speed right past the bathroom and the closet and stop in front of what appeared to be an ordinary wall at the terminus.

  Brandt removed the oxygen tubing from around his ears and the cannula from his nose in order to slide his necklace out from beneath his collar and over his head.

  Brooks had seen its ornamentation before. The charm was a three-inch-long section of four tapering, spade-shaped human vertebrae. They were the texture of stone and the color of clay and despite the inherent ugliness, represented an archaeological finding unique in all of the world. Brandt had found it himself in the Great Rift Valley, near the Congo, and prized it above any other object in his personal collection, for it was the validation of his life’s work, proof positive of the theory of evolution.

  It was a vestigial human tail.

  Brandt caught him looking, grinned like a child, and pulled the bones apart to expose the key hidden inside. He cast a wink back over his shoulder and slid aside an electrical outlet cover. Behind the false façade was a metal panel with a single lock in the center. He inserted the key, gave it a twist, and then removed it before the entire wall slid back into a recess and revealed an elevator cab with mirrored paneling.

  Brooks saw the reflection of Brandt’s smirk before settling on his own dumbfounded expression. He followed Brandt inside and turned to face the doors as they whispered closed.

  “How long have you been the director here, Jordan?”

  “Apparently not long enough to get the full tour.”

  “Then it’s high time we rectified that, my boy.” He smiled. “Push that bottom button, would you?”

  Brooks did as instructed and, with a hum, the cab descended. He watched Brandt in the mirror. The old man wore an amused expression that belied his age, unlike his old-fashioned, double-breasted Canali suit, which made him look like he’d stepped right out of the twenties. Brooks, in contrast, never failed to look rumpled, no matter how hard he tried to keep himself from tugging at his collar and pushing up his sleeves and adjusting his slacks. He was better suited for fieldwork, as his physique and mannerisms attested. There were times when he felt as though the deal to become director had been struck with the devil—and, in a sense, it had—as it was the price he had to pay to fund his own research. Yet in his eight years at the Johann Brandt Institute, he’d never even suspected there was an elevator in Brandt’s office, let alone a sublevel separate from the others. It was one thing not to be told when he was a graduate student, and maybe even during his years as a department head and assistant director, but he’d been the director of operations for nearly four full years now. Nothing should be allowed to go on within these walls without his implicit approval. Or at least his knowledge.

  As soon as the doors parted, he understood why the secret had been so closely guarded.

  The elevator opened upon a chamber approximately twenty feet wide and the length of the entire building. He realized the main sublevel where they received, stored, and curated artifacts was just on the other side of the wall. Either he’d never noticed the basement was smaller than the floor above it or this section had been poured at the same time as the initial foundation, sealed off, and buried. Considering construction on the original building, which had grown and metamorphosed into the architectural marvel that it was now, had commenced in 1978, the secret Brandt housed down here was one he’d been prepared to keep since before Brooks was even born.

  “You’ll be able to see better if you actually step out of the elevator,” Brandt said as he rolled down the main aisle of his own personal exhibition. An exhibition of a much different nature than the one in the office above their heads.

  Brooks followed slowly. His footsteps echoed from the walls. The air was dramatically cooler and the humidity was controlled to help preserve the delicate relics. He was just about to ask Brandt where he had secured so many rare and remarkable objects when he recognized the gleam of pride in the benefactor’s eyes. Like everything in his office, Brandt had personally collected these, too. Suddenly, he realized there was far more he didn’t know about his boss and mentor than he ever imagined.

  There were rows and rows of long glass cases, inside of which were plaster casts of faces mounted in such a way as to appear to be looking right at Brandt as he rolled past. They were discolored by age and crumbling in spots, but the care that had been invested into their creation was readily apparent. This was the foundation of evolutionary anthropology b
ack in the late thirties and early forties, although from a different school of practice than the one in which Brooks had been groomed. Scientists had traveled the world with their calipers and eye charts, measuring and comparing every possible physical dimension from weight and height to the length and width of noses, eyes, and foreheads. They’d established conventional ranges of eye color, dimension, and acuity for the different races and creeds. And then they’d immortalized the faces of their subjects in plaster.

  It was a horrible process during which the subjects were forced to close their eyes and mouths and breathe through reeds inserted into their nostrils while layer after layer of plaster were applied to their entire faces. Over their noses and eyes. In their ears and hair. The experience took hours and was often described as similar to being buried alive, which was why indigenous peoples tended to vanish when white men arrived and many early scholars shied away from its practice. In fact, there was really only one faction notorious for its use.

  The government-sponsored scientists of the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei.

  The Nazis.

  The pictures on the walls confirmed Brandt’s involvement. Were it not for the eyes and the smile, Brooks might not have recognized the man in the pictures—who barely looked out of his teens—as the elderly gentleman he’d known for nearly a decade. In most, he was bearded and wearing heavy wool sweaters and coats and hats in the field, where he mugged for posterity with his expedition mates in front of tents in remote locations or greeted foreign rulers and dignitaries at whose identities Brooks couldn’t even begin to speculate. There were black and white photographs of bundled men leading trains of overburdened mules up steep switchbacks and across glacial fields of ice, animals previously unknown to science and since driven to extinction by the men who “collected” them, and Brandt with natives of all nationalities as he poked and prodded with calipers and rulers and needles with a smile on his face.