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  “No, English will be fine,” interjected Kapoor. “Our cook, Savary, his English is very weak. I have taken it as my duty to teach him the Queen’s English while we travel your country.”

  Savary could actually speak English quite well. He knew something was up and that it was better to remain silent. With a smile on his face, he began to dish out the supper meal.

  Shakya took a mouthful and savored the food. With a pleasant smile on his face, he said to Savary, “This is delicious. Where did you learn to cook?”

  “My mother is good cook,” replied Savary.

  “Is a good cook,” corrected Kapoor.

  “Yes, my mother is a good cook,” repeated Savary before moving away from the fire. Placing his bowl down, he made it look as if he were looking inside his satchel for a spoon. Feeling the cold metal of his revolver, Savary slipped the pistol inside his voluminous jacket before returning to the fire with his food.

  “Have you travelled far?” asked Shakya.

  “We started our journey in Patna. We have been making our way across your country for almost two months now,” said Kapoor.

  “Surely, there were other monasteries you could have sold your goods to?” said Shakya.

  Kapoor was beginning to feel uncomfortable. The man was asking a lot of questions for a simple traveler.

  “We go where my boss, a doddering old Englishman, tells us to go,” said Kapoor.

  “Of course,” said Shakya as he dug into his food.

  “What about you, are you not afraid of the bandits?” asked Kapoor.

  With a smile, Shakya reached behind his back and pulled out a curved sword that gleamed in the light of the fire. “No, I am not worried. I was a soldier once. I know how to use this if I have to.”

  “Well, I’m glad that you’re here with us for the night,” said Kapoor, eyeing the sharp blade. “If the bandits come around, you can protect us.”

  “It is the least I can do after you allowed me near your fire and fed me some of your food,” replied Shakya, bowing his head.

  As he looked up at the clear night sky, Kapoor said, “It doesn’t look like rain will bother us during the night. I suggest that we all turn in and get a good night’s rest.”

  Shakya raised a hand. “Sir, I have a question before we turn in.”

  The hair on the back of Kapoor’s neck stood up. With a smile, he said, “What is bothering you?”

  “In your travels have you come across any Indians acting as agents of the British Empire who are traveling across Tibet mapping the countryside?” asked Shakya bluntly. “They are usually disguised as merchants, or perhaps pilgrims. It would be very bad for anyone if they were taking notes about this valley so it could be placed on a map.”

  Kapoor’s stomach knotted. The man was far too suspicious. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves and said, “No, I cannot say that we have seen anyone like that. I did not know such a thing was happening.”

  “Then you wouldn’t mind if I took a look at the notebook you have hidden in your jacket,” said Shakya as he placed his right hand on the hilt of his sword.

  In that instant, Kapoor knew that they had been identified as spies. Death awaited them if they were captured and turned over to the Tibetan authorities.

  With a feigned smile on his face, Kapoor said, “I have nothing to hide. It is merely a journal that I write down my thoughts in each night before we eat.”

  “Show me,” said Shakya coldly as he got up on his feet.

  Instead of reaching for his notebook, Kapoor panicked and fumbled for his pistol.

  In a flash, Shakya struck first, lopping off Kapoor’s head with one stroke of his razor-sharp sword. Blood flew into the air like a bright-red geyser.

  Savary jumped back from the horrid sight of Kapoor’s headless body as it tumbled over onto the ground. He reached into his jacket, pulled out his pistol and aimed it at Shakya.

  Shakya saw the outstretched pistol and turned his body slightly just as Savary pulled the trigger. The bullet flew past him and struck a tree behind him. With a savage snarl on his lips, he jumped at Savary, swinging his blade down and cutting off the poor young man’s pistol hand.

  In pain, Savary howled and pulled back his arm. He clutched his blood-soaked arm with his left hand. In horror, Savary watched as Paintal tried to stand only to be mercilessly cut down. Panic and fear instantly gripped Savary. He had to get away; spinning about on his heels, he bolted off into the night. He never saw the last member of their group, Mohan, split wide open, his guts spilling out onto the rocky ground. With his heart pounding wildly in his ears, Savary ran for his life. He wasn’t sure how far he had run before he collapsed beside a fast-flowing river. Savary, using his teeth, ripped a piece of cloth from his shirt and quickly bandaged his wound. With tears in his eyes, Savary tried to stand but found that he was too weak to travel any further. He lay down on his back and prayed that he had gotten away, and that their attacker wasn’t following him. Just before he blacked out, the words spoken by the man came back to Savary: “it would be very bad for anyone if they were taking notes about this valley so it could be placed on a map.” That was precisely what they had been doing, and it had cost the lives of three men. Why the man had killed his friends to keep the rocky valley they were traveling through a secret, was a question that would haunt Savary’s thoughts until the day he died.

  Chapter 3

  Tibet

  Mount Naraka,

  May 9th 1939

  It was as if time itself was conspiring against them. Within minutes, the mountain would be covered in night’s dark embrace. The instant the sun faded from sight, they would come back as they had the past two nights.

  Kurt Scheller cursed the frozen and bloodied splint on his left leg as he struggled through the knee-deep snow and trudged down the side of the mountain. Each painful step reminded him that he was lucky to be still alive. Scheller’s lungs ached for oxygen. He had to stop every couple of feet to catch his breath. Scheller knew that if he had even one bottle of oxygen, he could have picked up his pace and placed as much distance as he could between himself and the things that would soon be hunting him. However, with a shattered right knee and no supplies left, his future looked grim.

  The only other surviving member of the doomed expedition followed close behind Scheller, his hand tied to a rope that was attached to Scheller’s belt. Blinded during the attack on their camp, Ulle Muller, a German Army officer, stumbled on, knowing that his fate was in Scheller’s hands.

  Scheller looked back over his shoulder at the summit of the mountain, the snow slowly turning blood red from the setting sun. He knew that if they didn’t get further down the mountain in the next few minutes, he and Muller would not survive the night.

  What had started out a week ago as an attempt to climb Mount Naraka had quickly devolved into a desperate struggle to stay alive. Scheller, a surveyor by profession, had been recruited by the German Army to be part of an expedition to explore Western Tibet. An avid climber, Scheller had jumped at the opportunity to travel to one of the few still unexplored parts of the world. What Scheller did not realize was that the mission had an ulterior motive, one that had already claimed the lives of the other four members of the expedition along with over a dozen Sherpa guides.

  Scheller walked a few paces and then stopped to catch his breath. He wearily looked down at his watch and realized that they weren’t going to make it off the mountain before nightfall. He let out a deep, anguished sigh and then dropped down in the snow.

  “What is it, Kurt? Why have we stopped?” asked Muller.

  “Ulle, face it, we aren’t going to make it,” replied a dejected and exhausted Scheller. “We are still too high up the mountain, and even if we weren’t being hunted by those beasts, we don’t have a tent or sleeping bags. The sun will soon be gone, and the temperature will plummet. We will either freeze to death out here in the open or be torn apart by the beasts when they come for us.”

  Muller sat down beside
Scheller and placed his gloved left hand on Scheller’s shoulder. “Kurt, this can’t all be for nothing. I picked you for this mission because you are an excellent climber. I have no doubt that you can make it down using the light of the moon to see by. You must leave me and get off this cursed mountain alive.”

  Suddenly, a beastly howl filled the air. A second later, several more howls joined in.

  They were coming.

  Scheller, his heart racing in his chest, stood and looked back up the mountain. He couldn’t see their tormentors, but he knew they were there.

  “Come, Ulle, we’ll do this together,” said Scheller, reaching down to help Muller up onto his feet.

  “No, I’ll only hold you up,” said Muller as he undid the rope tied around his hand. “Give me your pistol. I’ll hold them here for as long as I can while you get away.”

  “Ulle, don’t be stupid. You’re blind. How do you expect to shoot them?”

  “I’ll wait until they get close,” said Muller, trying to sound confident. “They stink worse than rotting garbage. My nose will tell me when and where to shoot.”

  Scheller hesitated, torn by the dilemma of helping his friend or getting away with his life.

  “Kurt, your pistol,” said Muller, firmly.

  Scheller reached under his woolen parka, pulled out his revolver and then reluctantly placed it in Muller’s hand.

  “Here, take this,” said Muller as he handed him a small, black, leather-bound journal. “It has all my notes in it. Someone else may find it useful.”

  Scheller took the book and placed it in a pocket. He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder and then said, “Do you have anything you wish me to pass on to your family?”

  “If they ask, tell them I died as a German soldier fighting to my last breath.”

  “Goodbye, Ulle,” said Scheller as he turned his back, knowing that his friend would soon be dead.

  Scheller pushed on, willing himself to keep moving, knowing that even a moment to catch his breath or rest his weary body meant certain death. He had become numb to the cold that enveloped his body.

  A shot rang out in the frigid night air.

  Scheller didn’t bother to look back. He knew what was about to happen.

  Another and then another shot echoed down from above.

  With his heart beating wildly, Scheller began to run, his frozen feet stumbling along the ice.

  A horrid blood-curdling scream tore through the air.

  Scheller swore. Muller was dead.

  Fear filled Scheller’s mind. He didn’t want to die, not at the hands of the beasts. He ignored his training and ran as fast as he could along the edge of the glacier. A few seconds later, he could see a rocky outcropping only a few hundred meters away. If he got there, he could remove the sharpened metal crampons from his boots and make better time going down the mountain.

  From behind, Scheller heard the sound of claws digging into the ice. His heart began to race.

  They were closing in.

  He had to escape. In desperation, he tossed his icepick aside and then ripped the pack off his back as he tried to lose anything that might slow him down.

  Scheller was too afraid to look back. He could hear a beast racing across the glacier, trying to catch him before he got onto the rocks.

  With barely ten meters to go, Scheller suddenly felt his feet slip on the ice. A second later, he found himself on his back, sliding down the side of the glacier. He struggled in vain to stop himself. He knew that without his icepick he was doomed. With his heart pounding away like a drum in his chest, Scheller could see the edge of the glacier racing towards him in the silvery light of a full moon. Scheller closed his eyes and said a silent prayer as he slipped off the side of the glacier and out into the dark.

  Above, an enraged animal howled. It looked down into the darkened abyss below the glacier trying to see where its prey had landed. Unable to see Scheller’s body, it turned around and let out a deep grunt. The beast made its way back up the mountain to join the others waiting for it higher up near the peak. It strode easily over the icy surface of the glacier and looked up at the bright silvery moon creeping up above the mountain peak. It sensed deep inside its soul that times had changed.

  The first attempt in centuries to penetrate their territory had been destroyed. The beast knew that there would be more intruders and that they would all have to suffer the same fate.

  Chapter 4

  Germany

  Wewelsburg Castle,

  May 9th, 1942

  Obertsturmfuhrer Carlos Adler stood silent, staring at the grandfather clock standing in the corner of an otherwise sterile room. His breathing was slow and measured. He had been waiting for close to an hour. Adler placed his hands behind his back, turned on his heels and then walked over to a tall window looking out onto the lush green countryside. It looked so peaceful and calm. It was hard to believe that there was a war on. A nearby apple orchard reminded Adler of his time as a young boy exploring his father’s vast estates in southern Germany.

  Although Adler stood at just under six feet tall with a strong athletic build, he was hardly the poster child for Himmler’s SS. He had thick black hair, a swarthy complexion and dark ebony colored eyes, all from his mother’s side. Born to a German father and a Spanish mother, Adler had grown up a child of both countries. His father, a prominent businessman, moved his family every year from Germany in the winter to their second home in Madrid, Spain. He had grown up in a life of privilege. Adler, like his father, saw any change to the status quo as a threat to his way of life and more importantly to his family. He had eagerly served as a volunteer in Franco’s fascist forces during the Spanish Civil War. Adler was a natural leader and reveled in combat. He quickly built up a reputation for ruthlessness, as he had no qualms about personally executing captured German Republican volunteers as traitors to their homeland. He returned home after the war and spurned his father’s request that he join the family business; instead, knowing that a new war was coming, he enlisted in the SS and rapidly rose through their ranks. Adler had been serving in Russia, hunting down and exterminating partisans behind the lines when he was told to board the next available flight back to Germany.

  He had never met the man he was waiting to see. Adler had been told nothing about why he was being sent back to Germany. Whatever it was, he knew that it must be important. Adler straightened his jet-black tunic and then self-consciously checked the remainder of his uniform for lint. He’d lost some weight while fighting in Russia and his uniform hung a little loose on him.

  Adler had been to Wewelsburg Castle when he was first inducted into the SS. A Renaissance castle, Wewelsburg had been taken over by the SS before the war. Originally envisioned as a school to indoctrinate SS members into their new life as standard-bearers of the Greater German Reich, it quickly became the spiritual heart of the SS. Adler knew that Heinrich Himmler, the leader of the SS, had become fascinated with the occult. Rumors swirled through the ranks that ancient occult ceremonies were held in the castle in the dead of night, in which select high-ranking SS officers would mediate on honor, the new Aryan race and Nazi chivalry. Adler was a true believer in Nazi ideology and had no time for such gossip. He believed in his heart that it was his and Germany’s destiny to subjugate all of the lesser races of Europe.

  Behind him, a couple of heavy oak doors swung open.

  Adler turned about smartly and came to attention. A young blonde-haired officer stood by the doors, flanked by two SS guards in full-dress uniforms holding polished submachine guns. After the recent attempted assassination of several high-ranking SS officials, Himmler had become paranoid for his own safety.

  “Herr Obertsturmfuhrer, Herr Himmler will see you now,” announced the young officer.

  Adler’s heart swelled with pride; he should have been nervous meeting one of the architects of the New Germany, but instead he was as cool as a mountain glacier. With his head held high, Adler walked past the officer and stepped inside Himm
ler’s spacious and richly adorned private office. The walls were covered with paintings depicting pivotal moments in German history, many of which were old legends heavily embellished by the SS to conform to their view of the world. Several suits of armor stood silent, their metal hands resting on their swords, like sentinels watching over Heinrich Himmler. He proudly walked forward and then halted in front of a long polished wooden desk, clicked his heels and then gave a stiff-armed Nazi salute to the short, bespectacled man sitting behind the desk.

  Himmler set his fountain pen down and looked up at Adler. His small eyes studied him through thick glasses. For a man who espoused racial purity, Himmler, with dark hair like Adler, was hardly a tall, blonde-haired, blue-eyed descendant of the original Nordic Aryans who had come from down the north to populate Germany according to Nazi mythology. He sat there quietly scrutinizing the man standing in front of him, like a doctor might while he examined a patient.

  “State your name, Obertsturmfuhrer,” said Himmler.

  “Sir, I am Obertsturmfuhrer Carlos Adler, commanding officer of the Fourth SS Police Regiment. My mission is the liquidation of communist partisans operating behind our lines,” answered Adler, his voice full of pride.

  “Do you like your job, Adler?” asked Himmler.

  “Yes, sir, I most certainly do,” replied Adler honestly.

  “Tell me, Herr Adler, does it trouble you that the French barely put up a fight and the British fled to their miserable little island after Dunkirk, yet the communist swine continue to resist our efforts to liberate their country?”

  “No, sir, not at all, my men and I know our jobs. Resistance is to be expected. The Slavs know no better. The inbreeding among these undesirables has been going on for centuries. I believe that it is Germany’s destiny to teach the lesser races of Europe that to resist is to die.”

  “Good answer, an officer, should take pride in his work,” said Himmler with a smile on his face as he stood up from behind his desk.