The Mummies of the Reich

By K. M. Ashman

To stop a terrifying plot of global proportions, a Nazi secret must be unearthed in this time-shift thriller by the author of The Vestal Conspiracy.

When a 100-year-old crucifix is discovered around the neck of a 500-year-old mummy, special investigator Brandon Walker once more calls on the expertise of librarian and researcher India Summers to solve the mystery. They soon discover that there is far more to this than a cruel hoax—and that the crucifix is linked to Hitler’s SS.

The secrets India and Brandon begin to uncover are fiercely protected by a secretive group of dangerous men. They will stop at nothing to find the most powerful and dangerous artifact of all time, known simply as the Icon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Nov 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9781788637596

K. M. Ashman

Kevin Ashman is the author of eighteen novels, including the bestselling Roman Chronicles and highly ranked Medieval Sagas. Always pushing the boundaries, he found further success with the India Sommers Mysteries, as well as three other standalone projects, Vampire, Savage Eden and the dystopian horror story The Last Citadel. Kevin was born and raised in Wales and now writes full-time. He is married with four grown children and enjoys cycling, swimming and watching rugby. Current works include the Blood of Kings series: A Land Divided, A Wounded Realm and Rebellion’s Forge. Links to all Kevin’s books can be found at www.KMAshman.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Germany 1945

Karl Mueller stood at the station waiting for the steam train to come to a halt. All along the platform hundreds of young men were standing in groups, the anticipation almost palpable as they faced their uncertain futures together. He smiled inwardly as he saw the last-minute emotion from the girls many were leaving behind, most clinging on to the false promises they had been given prior to taking the young men to their beds the previous night. Others were genuine in their feelings as lovers, mothers and sisters said goodbye to their menfolk, possibly for the last time.

Karl belonged to neither group and stood alone, smoking his Lande Mokri Superb cigarette. He too had been lucky enough to share a bed with a young woman the previous night, though she wasn’t here to wave him goodbye, nor was she likely to be. She was probably already out on some nearby street corner looking for her next punter, though the bruised face he had left her with probably limited the potential customer base.

‘That will teach her to be greedy,’ he thought. ‘Five marks for one night was extortionate.’ He might be paid far more than an ordinary soldier but she certainly didn’t warrant a day’s wages.

The train squealed to a halt and the steam fell down onto the platform like heavy snow, obscuring the last goodbyes of the soldiers. Some of the single men rushed toward the doors, fully aware that there were far more men than seats, while those with family ties hung on to their loved ones as long as possible before being screamed at by their non-commissioned officers to get on board.

Karl took his time, drawing deeply on his cigarette, taking the glowing ash almost down to his fingers before flicking the butt across the platform. He picked up his kitbag and walked nonchalantly toward the rear of the train, heading toward the one door that was clear of the infantry’s field-grey uniforms. The throng parted to allow him through, many glancing toward him but careful not to make eye contact for more than a second or so. Some looked at him with respect, most with indifference, but some with genuine hate. Nobody knew him personally, but the immaculate black uniform he wore and the arrogant way in which he strolled across the platform ensured a suitable reaction that his rank and unit demanded.

The door opened before him and a white-jacketed steward stepped out to take his kitbag. Karl stepped into the carriage and looked down the passage. The aisle ran alongside the windows on the right, while on his left were the numerous private cabins reserved for officers of his rank. He strolled down, followed by the steward, looking for an empty room until a door opened toward the rear and a soldier dressed in a similar uniform stepped out of the door and into the corridor.

‘Karl,’ he shouted, ‘Karl Mueller. Come down here, we kept you a seat.’ Karl recognised Heinrich Bierman, a fellow officer from his unit, and made his way along the corridor before stopping before him.

‘And what makes you think I would want to share my journey with an ugly, illiterate son of a dog that smells like a pig and looks like a horse?’ asked Karl.

Heinrich took a step closer and placed his face up close to Karl’s.

‘Because,’ he said menacingly, ‘I have this.’

Karl felt something being pushed against his midriff and glanced down at an open but almost full bottle of Schnapps. He looked back up at the fellow officer.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘if you put it like that…’

Both men burst into laughter and Karl followed his friend into the smoke-filled cabin. Four more officers sat on the upholstered seats on either side, drinking schnapps and smoking heavily. Several more bottles joined a pack of cards on the tiny table under the window and in the corner sat a partially dressed young woman, looking up at him nervously.

‘And who’s this?’ asked Karl.

‘This is Marlene,’ said Heinrich, followed by a belch. ‘She is, shall we say, the entertainment. We have a long journey, so may as well make the most of it.’

Karl removed his jacket and folded it carefully before placing it on the overhead rack, noticing with pride that all the other officers present had done exactly the same thing. They might relax in the privacy of the first class carriage, but when it was time to disembark it was important to look immaculate in front of the troops. After all, they had standards to uphold, they were the SS.

Chapter 2

London 2012

India sat before her computer, cursing the fact that the council-controlled internet was playing up once again.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she said, leaning back in frustration.

‘Problem?’ asked a voice, and she looked up to see a familiar figure standing just inside the doorway.

‘Brandon,’ she said with a smile, ‘what are you doing here?

‘Just passing,’ he said. ‘Thought I would pop in to say hello.’

‘It’s great to see you,’ said India, and walked over to kiss him on the cheek.

‘So,’ said Brandon looking around, ‘is this your new workplace?’

‘It is,’ said India. ‘I am now the chief researcher for London Libraries. What do you think?’

Brandon nodded with approval.

‘Impressive,’ he said. ‘Much better than that pokey little library you were working in a few months ago. Do you share this office?’

‘Nope, it’s all mine,’ said India. ‘From here, I can access every electronic document kept in any library across London. All I have to do is search the title, hit the button and it downloads in minutes.’

‘Surely you haven’t got every book ever written stored electronically?’ asked Brandon.

‘Of course not,’ said India. ‘At least, not yet, but if there isn’t an electronic version, they simply send the physical version via courier.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, how are you? I haven’t seen you in months.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Brandon, ‘and the agency is busy, so that’s good.’

‘Excellent,’ said India.

‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Is your leg OK?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘apparently I pulled a few ligaments in my knee but it seems to be fine now. It’ll take more than a Saljik assassin to stop a London girl, I’ll have you know.’

Brandon smiled but didn’t answer, remembering how close they had both come to being murdered earlier in the year.

‘Look, I finish in fifteen minutes,’ said India. ‘Fancy a coffee and a bit of a catch up?’

‘Sounds great,’ said Brandon.

‘The Coffee House isn’t far,’ said India. ‘Remember the one where we met up before the Suleiman case?’

‘Yeah, I know it. Shall I go on up and wait for you there?’

‘Hang on,’ said India, ‘I’ll just turn everything off and walk up with you.’

A few minutes later, India said good night to the staff and walked outside with Brandon, feeding her arm through his as they walked the London pavements in the failing evening light.

Though they hadn’t seen each other for a while, India and Brandon were close enough to consider themselves friends and comfortable enough in each other’s company to totally relax when they finally did meet up. India Summers was a respected historian and worked by day as the London Libraries chief researcher, while Brandon Walker was an ex-SAS intelligence officer who ran his own detective agency, specialising in solving cases where the government preferred a low profile investigation and a discreet outcome. As such, Brandon had maintained close links with his ex-comrades in the forces, often calling on them for support, and on the odd occasion the cases had an historical element, he used India’s phenomenal historical knowledge to help him achieve a suitable outcome.

Twice they had undertaken adventures that included travelling the world, once to uncover a secret cult who had kidnapped the prime minister’s niece and the second time to solve the murder of a Greek politician and uncover an ancient treasure in the process.

On both occasions they had been in terrible danger, but with a combination of his survival instinct and India’s extraordinary historical knowledge, they had succeeded by the skin of their teeth.

They made small talk as they walked and soon entered the familiar coffee shop.

‘The usual?’ asked Brandon.

‘Yes please,’ said India, pleased that he had remembered. ‘I’ll grab a table.’

Within minutes they were sitting in the bay window, talking about their recent adventures in the Caribbean.

‘So,’ said India, ‘what are you working on at the moment?’

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ said Brandon with a smile. He fished some photographs from his inside pocket, sliding the first across the table. India picked it up and looked at the image of a silver necklace lying on a red velvet cushion. The chain was nothing special but the attached crucifix was intricate and obviously of great quality.

‘What can you tell me about this?’ he asked.

‘Pretty,’ she said, ‘but nothing special. Perhaps Georgian, Victorian at a push. Worth a couple of hundred pounds, I suppose.’

‘Hmm,’ said Brandon, ‘that’s what I thought. Now what about this?’

He pushed the other photograph across the table.

India picked it up, much more interested in this one than the necklace. The picture was of a dead young girl sitting within a glass box with her arms wrapped around her knees and her chin resting on her chest. She wore what had once been a multi-coloured poncho and her jet black hair fell back around her shoulders beneath a headdress of faded bird feathers. Her eyes were tightly shut and the leathered skin on her face was dark brown and wrinkled well beyond her age.

‘Wow,’ said India, ‘if I am correct, this is a mountain mummy, similar to the ones found in Argentina but much better preserved. I’ve never seen this one before, where did you get the picture?’

‘I’ll come to that in a minute,’ said Brandon. ‘What can you tell me about the mummy?’

‘Well, first of all,’ said India, ‘it’s important to realise that contrary to popular belief, mummies are not just a product of Egyptian culture. They can be found in many countries across the world, Egypt, China, Germany, Japan and most of the countries across South America. We even have them here.’

‘In Britain?’

‘Yes, though to be fair, they are usually bog mummies, formed after human sacrifices were thrown into peat bogs during the Iron Age. Anyway, the point is, they are found everywhere. These ones, however, are mountain mummies, and are particularly relevant to South America. Over the past hundred years or so, archaeologists have deliberately sought them out to study them. Most of them are buried high in the mountains and are usually accompanied by gold and silver ornaments.’

‘Hence the sudden interest, I suppose,’ said Brandon.

‘That’s a bit cynical,’ said India, ‘but I accept the point. Anyway, all of a sudden these bodies are turning up everywhere and most recently a new type has been discovered, not buried like the others but left open to the elements on the very highest peaks. Apparently, the air is so cold and dry the bodies are virtually dry-frozen and preserved instantly. This means that all the internal organs are preserved exactly the same as the day they died.’

‘But this one is only a girl.’

‘Oh, they all are,’ said India. ‘The Incas believed if they sacrificed their children, the gods would not only reward their people but return them in a later life.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Brandon, ‘are you saying that these people took their own children up on to the top of some mountain and just left them to die?’

‘Some did, others were killed before being buried, some were poisoned and some were buried alive beneath layers of wood before the hole was filled back in.’

‘That’s awful,’ said Brandon.

‘But true, nonetheless. Anyway, you haven’t answered my question,’ said India. ‘Where is this one from?’

‘Well,’ said Brandon, ‘at the moment it’s in the British Museum.’

‘Really,’ said India, ‘you do surprise me. Up until now, Argentina has refused to send their mummies around the world for fear of degradation.’

‘A recent change of attitude,’ said Brandon. ‘As a goodwill gesture, they agreed for the British Museum to investigate one of the lesser known exhibits. Apparently, it’s been lying in refrigeration for decades in Buenos Aires.’

‘Why would they do that?’ asked India. ‘They are more than capable of carrying out their own investigations.’

‘As part of ongoing discussions between us and them,’ said Brandon. ‘Apparently they still have designs on the Falklands and are on a charm offensive to thaw relationships with the UK. This new international cooperation is just a small part of what’s going on behind the scenes.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said India. ‘I was at the museum at the weekend, and it wasn’t on display then.’

‘Nor is it likely to be,’ said Brandon. ‘It is already the centre of a huge international argument that threatens to tear down all the goodwill already built between the two countries.’

‘How?’

Brandon pushed both photographs toward India again.

‘How old do you reckon the cross is?’ he asked.

‘Two hundred years maximum.’

‘And the mummy?’

‘Five hundred to a thousand, I suppose.’

‘So, what if I was to tell you that when they X-rayed the mummy, they found the cross around the girl’s neck?’

India stared at him in silence for several seconds, absorbing the information.

‘Impossible,’ she said at last.

‘I thought you would say that,’ said Brandon. ‘Yet it is true.’

‘It can’t be,’ said India, ‘it’s obviously a hoax.’

‘That’s what the people at the British Museum are saying, and they have accused their Argentine counterparts of treating them with contempt.’

‘What do the Argentines say?’

‘They are accusing the British Museum of setting them up and demanding substantial compensation for damaging their credibility along with an international apology.’

‘So what’s the outcome?’

‘Stalemate,’ sighed Brandon. ‘All scientific ties have been cut, Argentina wants the body back and we refuse to release it. It’s all we can do to keep it out of the papers. Both governments are backing their respective scientific teams and it’s bordering on a serious diplomatic incident.’

India sipped her coffee, staring at the pictures.

‘So where do you fit in all this?’ she asked eventually.

‘I’ve been asked to investigate,’ said Brandon.

‘By whom?’

‘You know I can’t answer that,’ said Brandon.

‘Oh yes,’ said India, ‘I remember, the grey men.’

‘Exactly.’

‘So what do they expect from you?’

‘Well, if we can find the true perpetrator of the hoax, the men in suits can make their apologies behind closed doors and we can all kiss and make up.’

‘And how do you think I can help?’

‘Look, India, I know you don’t fancy doing this full time, but I want you to come in with me on this.’

‘I thought you might.’

‘India, I could really use your help. The historical links are beyond me and the best person I can think of to help me is you.’

‘There are many other experts out there you could use.’

‘I know, but we’ve worked together before and I think we made a good team.’

‘Well, I have to say I’m flattered,’ said India, ‘but I’m not sure if I have the time.’

‘Oh, come on,’ said Brandon, ‘you know the score, we can easily get that sorted. A couple of phone calls and you can be on indefinite leave, no questions asked.’

India picked at the carrot cake, holding Brandon with her gaze.

‘I have to admit,’ she said, ‘the last time we worked together it was a real rollercoaster ride.’

‘Well, I can’t promise the same level of excitement. All it seems we are looking for is a hoaxer, but the history part may be interesting. Come on, you know you want to.’

India eventually smiled.

‘Oh, go on then,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose they will miss me for a couple of weeks.’

‘Excellent,’ said Brandon. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist my charms.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ laughed India, ‘it may just be that I can’t resist the chance to see behind the scenes in the British Museum. So, where do we begin?’

‘I thought the first thing we should do is examine the body, what do you think?’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ said India. ‘When do we start?’

‘No time like the present,’ said Brandon. ‘You grab a couple more coffees while I make some calls.’ A few minutes later he returned to the table and sat down.

‘Right, you are now on paid leave for one month,’ he said, ‘and I have arranged access to the storerooms of the British Museum.’

‘When?’

Brandon looked at his watch.

‘Six o’clock tonight.’

‘But it closes at five thirty.’

‘I know.’

India groaned.

‘This isn’t an official visit, is it?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Why do I get the feeling this is going to be trouble?’ asked India.

‘Oh, you know me,’ Brandon said with a smile, ‘trouble is my middle name.’

Chapter 3

Germany 1945

Maggers lay deep within a thicket at the edge of an unmaintained field. He had been there since dawn and it was the best place he could find in the little time available. The thick foliage covered him from anybody passing but he knew he had to move soon or run the risk of discovery. He reached into the chest pocket of his flying jacket and pulled out the remains of his fruit bar, the last of the emergency rations every aircrew carried when on operations over Germany. Unwrapping the foil he nibbled slowly on the precious chocolate, ensuring he savoured every last morsel before placing the last few pieces back in his pocket and crawling toward the edge of his hiding place.

The light was fading and it was important he memorised the scene in front of him before it got too dark. He had watched the farm most of the day and though he had seen an old couple feeding some chickens, there was no sign of any dogs. He knew he had no choice. He needed food and though he had managed to eke out his rations so far, this farm offered him the best chance he had had since being shot down. Where there were chickens, there were eggs, and if he was careful, he could be in and out within minutes and miles away before anyone was the wiser.

---

An hour later, Maggers crawled slowly through the grass toward the hen house, stopping every few yards to check for any sign of life from the farmhouse. All seemed still but he waited for the light from a flickering candle to go out in an upstairs room before completing the final leg. Within minutes he reached the shed and eased himself through the unlocked door. The sound of the unnerved chickens from one side guided him to the right place and though he knew it was risky, he pulled out his petrol lighter to shed some light on the situation. He held up the lighter in front of him, intending to keep it lit just long enough to get his bearings, but as he pulled back the ridged wheel to ignite the fuel, he found himself staring into the end of a double-barrelled shotgun.

The two men stared at each other, both terrified at the presence of the other. Eventually the one holding the gun lowered it and spoke in a hushed whisper.

‘Maggers,’ he said, ‘I almost shot your bloody head off,’

‘Ryan,’ answered Maggers, ‘thank God it’s you.’ The two men shook hands vigorously. ‘How did you get here? I thought you went down with the plane.’

‘I almost did,’ said Ryan, ‘but I managed to get out just before it hit dirt. My chute only just opened before I ended up in a tree.’

‘Bloody good to see you,’ said Maggers. ‘Any sign of the others?’

‘Not yet,’ said Ryan. ‘I know Bloomer and Gunner got out but I think the rest creamed in.’

‘Poor buggers,’ said Maggers.

‘Comes with the job,’ said Ryan.

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Maggers. ‘Anyway, what’s the score here?’

‘I’ve been here for two days,’ said Ryan. ‘Came up trumps really. It seems there is only an old couple in the house and no dogs to be seen. The old woman comes in here once a day to feed the chickens but apart from that, it’s as quiet as a graveyard.’

‘Any sign of the Bosch?’

‘No, I think we are too far out in the sticks. Did you bury your chute?’

‘Yeah, but it won’t be long before the crash site is found, and when the body count doesn’t tally, the local police will inform the army. It won’t be long before Jerry is all over this place. We need to get going.’

‘I know,’ said Ryan. ‘It was just nice to have somewhere dry to sleep for a couple of nights.’

‘Any eggs in those?’ asked Maggers, pointing at the chicken’s nest.

Ryan dug into his pocket and pulled out four eggs.

‘Got these beauties earlier,’ he said. ‘Here, you have them.’

‘What about you?’

‘I had a load earlier. The old couple went out so I lit a fire and cooked a pile of scrambled eggs. Can’t have a fire now though, they might see the light.’

‘Oh well,’ said Maggers taking the eggs, ‘it’s all food I suppose.’ He cracked the four eggs one at a time directly into his mouth, his eyes tight shut as he swallowed the much-needed protein.

‘Yuck,’ he said when he was finished. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a bacon sarnie.’

‘Me too,’ said Ryan. ‘So, have you got any idea where we are?’

‘Somewhere north of Hamburg,’ said Maggers. ‘We had just swung north toward Denmark when the old bird caught the flak. I reckon we are pretty near the border and if we can make ten miles a night, we could be in Denmark in a few days. Once there we can try and contact the resistance.’

‘Then we had better get started,’ said Ryan.

‘Bring the gun,’ said Maggers.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Ryan. ‘It’s a bit ancient and there’s only one cartridge. Besides, what use will this be against a machine pistol?’

‘Perhaps nothing,’ said Maggers, ‘but if nothing else, it may just get us a rabbit.’

After checking the coast was clear, both British airmen made their way out into the night and after waiting for a break in the clouds to find the North Star, headed toward Denmark.

Chapter 4

London 2012

‘This way,’ said Brandon as he led the way against the flow of human traffic coming from the entrance to the museum. They walked around the outside of the imposing building and down a path leading toward a locked door. Brandon knocked and a few seconds later the door was opened by a young man dressed in jeans and a baggy T-shirt.

‘Christian?’ asked Brandon.

‘That’s me,’ said the young man, ‘and you are?’

‘Mr Stevenson,’ Brandon lied. ‘I believe you are expecting me?’

‘I am, come in.’

‘Everything set?’ asked Brandon when they were inside the corridor.

‘I think so,’ said the young man, and led them down a corridor to a spiral staircase.

Brandon looked up at an overhead CCTV camera.

‘Are we being watched?’ he asked.

‘Security,’ said Christian. ‘Don’t worry, I have booked you in as a couple of researchers.’

‘But isn’t the museum closed?’ asked India.

‘To the public, yes, but for researchers the vaults are open until eight.’

‘So we are kosher then?’

‘Up to a point,’ said Christian, ‘but you will only have fifteen minutes in the room itself. There are no cameras in the vault with the mummy but security thinks you are just taking pictures for research reasons. Any longer and they’ll send a roving guard.’

‘No problem,’ said Brandon, ‘fifteen minutes is ample.’

They went through a few more doors and down another two staircases. Eventually, Christian stopped at the end of a corridor and gave them a key.

‘Take the last door on the left.’

‘Are you not coming?’ asked Brandon.

‘Look, mister,’ he said, ‘all I know is that I’ve been instructed to ensure you get into the room. What you do after that is your business, but whatever it is, there is no need for me to get further involved.’

‘No problem,’ said Brandon and followed India down the corridor.

‘Who is he?’ asked India as they walked.

‘Trainee archaeologist,’ said Brandon. ‘Graduated from Oxford with a double first and recruited by MI6 within a week of getting this job.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said India, ‘one on your long list of contacts, I suppose.’ She unlocked the door and led Brandon into the vault. Lights flickered on automatically and they paused to get their bearings. The room was enormous and filled with rows of crates and boxes. On a long table against a wall, notebooks and laptops lay abandoned amongst scores of trays containing tiny fragments of pottery and rust-encrusted jewellery. Brandon picked up one of the notepads.

‘Fragments of wealth from a bronze age barrow,’ he read. ‘Whatever that means.’

‘There she is,’ said India quietly.

Brandon turned around and followed India’s gaze. In the corner of the room, a trolley stood alone, surrounded by a circle of chairs. On top of the trolley, a box of some sort was covered by a draped sheet and a connected cable led to a nearby socket. They walked over and Brandon removed the sheet before taking a step back as he took in the sight before him.

What they thought was going to be a box turned out to be a clear Perspex cube, formed to enable examination of the body without it being contaminated by touch or breath. The little girl was leaning against an internal back rest and secured in place via modern leather restraints, placed there by a well-meaning curator somewhere in Argentina. She was exactly the same as in the photograph, though in the flesh looked smaller and much more vulnerable.

‘Oh my God,’ said India. ‘She is so small.’

‘She looks younger in real life,’ said Brandon quietly. He leaned forward and flicked the switch on the wall.

‘What are you doing?’ asked India.

‘The light doesn’t work,’ said Brandon.

‘That’s not a light, you idiot,’ snapped India, ‘it’s a refrigeration unit to keep her frozen. Switch that off for any length of time and she’ll start to decompose.’

‘Sorry,’ mumbled Brandon and checked he had left the switch in the on position.

India walked slowly around the Perspex box, talking quietly to herself.

‘You poor, poor thing,’ she said as she walked, ‘what have they done to you?’

‘Enough of the sentiment, India,’ said Brandon, ‘we have a job to do. Is there anything about her that screams fake to you?’

‘Christ, Brandon,’ said India, leaning closer to the Perspex. ‘I’ve only been here a few minutes and already you want a bloody scientific report.’

‘Sorry to rush you, India, but we only have fifteen minutes, remember?’

‘I know, I know,’ she said, ‘but give me a break.’

She spent the next few minutes examining every inch of the girl through the Perspex before finally standing up.

‘Seems genuine to me,’ she said. ‘If it is a fake, it’s a bloody good one.’

‘What about the cross?’ asked Brandon. ‘Anything there