The Charlemagne Pursuit cm-4 Page 17

  Mention of the deformity made him think of Henrik Thorvald-sen's crooked spine. He wondered what his Danish friend was doing. Thorvaldsen would surely either know, or know of, Isabel Oberhauser. Some intel on that personality would be helpful. But if he called, Thorvaldsen would wonder why he was still in Germany. Since he didn't have the answer to that question himself, there was no sense begging it. "Pippin was later disinherited," she said, "when Charlemagne birthed healthy, nondeformed sons by later wives.

  Pippin became his father's bitter enemy, but died before Charlemagne. Louis, ultimately, was the only son to survive. He was gentle, deeply religious, and learned, but he shrank from battle and lacked consistency. He was forced to abdicate in favor of his three sons, who tore the empire apart by 841. It wasn't until the tenth century that it was reassembled by Otto I."

  "Did he have help, too? The Holy Ones?"

  "No one knows. The only direct record of their involvement with European culture are the contacts with Charlemagne, and those come only from the journal I have, the one Einhard left in his grave."

  "And how has all this remained secret?"

  "Grandfather told only my father. But because of his wandering mind, it was hard to know what was real or imagined. Father involved the Americans. Neither Father nor the Americans could read the book from Charlemagne's grave, the one Dorothea has, which is supposed to be the complete account. So the secret has endured."

  As long as she was talking he asked, "Then how did your grandfather find anything in Antarctica?"

  "I don't know. All I know is that he did. You saw the stones."

  "And who has those now?"

  "Dorothea, I'm sure. She certainly didn't want me to have them."

  "So she trashed those displays? What your grandfather collected?"

  "My sister never cared for Grandfather's beliefs. And she is capable of anything."

  He caught more frost in her tone and decided not to press any further. Instead he glanced at one of the guidebooks and studied a sketch of the chapel, its surrounding courtyards, and adjacent buildings.

  The chapel complex seemed to possess an almost phallic shape, circular at one end, an extension jutting forward with a rounded end at the other. It connected to what was once a refectory, now the treasury, by an interior door. Only one set of exterior doors were shown-the main entrance they'd used earlier, called the Wolf's Doors.

  "What are you thinking?" she asked.

  The question jarred his attention back to her. "The book you have, from Einhard's grave. Do you have a complete translation of its Latin?"

  She nodded. "Stored on my computer at Reichshoffen. But it's of little use. He talks about the Holy Ones and a few of their visits with Charlemagne. The important information is supposedly in the book Dorothea has. What Einhard called a 'full comprehension.' "

  "But your grandfather apparently learned that comprehension."

  "It seems so, though we don't know that for sure."

  "So what happens when we finish this pursuit? We don't have the book Dorothea has."

  "That's when Mother expects us to work together. Each of us has a part, compelled to cooperate with the other."

  "But you're both trying like the devil to obtain all the pieces so that you don't need the other."

  How had he managed to get himself involved in such a mess?

  "Charlemagne's pursuit is, to me, the only way to learn anything. Dorothea thinks the solution may lie with the Ahnenerbe and whatever it was pursuing. But I don't believe that's the case."

  He was curious. "You know a lot about what she thinks."

  "My future is at stake. Why wouldn't I know all that I could?"

  This stylish woman never hesitated for a noun, searched for the correct tense of a verb, or failed to voice the right phrase. Though beautiful, smart, and intriguing, something about Christl Falk didn't ring quite right. Similar in his mind to when he'd first met Cassiopeia Vitt in France, last year.

  Attraction mixed with caution.

  But that negative never seemed to deter him.

  What was it about strong women with deep contradictions that drew him? Pam, his ex-wife, had been difficult. All of the women he'd known since the divorce had been handfuls, including Cassiopeia. Now this German heiress who combined beauty, brains, and bravado.

  He stared out the window at the neo-gothic town hall, tower roofs at each end, one with a clock that read five thirty.

  She noticed his interest in the building. "There's a story. The chapel stands behind the town hall. Charlemagne had them connected with a courtyard, enclosed by his palace compound. In the fourteenth century, when Aachen built that town hall, they changed the entrance from the north side, facing the courtyard, to the south, facing this way. That reflected a new civic independence. The people had become self-important and, symbolically, turned their backs on the church." She pointed out the window at the fountain in the Marktplatz. "That statue atop is Charlemagne. Notice that he faces away from the church. A seventeenth-century reaffirmation."

  1. Octagon

  1. Octagon 2. Choir

  2. Choir 3. Entrance Hall

  4. Matthias Chapel 5. Anna Chapel

  6. Hungarian Chapel 7. All Saints' Chapel

  8. St. Michael's Chapel

  9. Charles and Hubertus Chapel 10. Baptist Chapel 10. Baptist Chapel 11. All Souls' Chapel 12. Treasury (Small Dragonhole) 13. Cloister

  13. Cloister

  14. Church-yard

  He used her invitation to glance outside as an opportunity to examine the restaurant where Hatchet Face had taken refuge-a half-timbered building that reminded him of an English pub.

  He listened to the babble of languages mixed with the clanking of plates and cutlery around him. He found himself no longer objecting, either openly or silently, no longer searching out explanations for why he was here. Instead, his mind played with an idea. The cold weight of the gun from yesterday in his jacket pocket reassured him. But only five rounds remained.

  "We can do this," she said.

  He faced her. "Can we?"

  "It's important that we do."

  Her eyes were lit with anticipation.

  But he wondered.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHARLOTTE

  CHARLIE SMITH WAITED IN THE CLOSET. HE'D RUSHED INSIDE, without thinking, relieved to find it deep and cluttered, and positioned himself behind the hanging clothes, leaving the door open in the hope it would deter anyone from looking inside. He'd heard the bedroom door open and the two visitors enter, but it sounded like his ruse had worked. They'd decided to leave and he listened as the front door opened, then closed.

  This was the closest he'd ever come to detection. He hadn't expected any interruptions. Who were they? Should Ramsey be informed? No, the admiral had made it clear that there should be no contact until all three jobs were done.

  He crept to the window and watched as the car that had been parked out front disappeared down the graveled lane toward the highway-two passengers inside. He prided himself on meticulous preparation. His files were a wealth of useful information. People were generally creatures of habit. Even those who insisted they had no habits practiced predictability. Herbert Rowland was a simple man, enjoying retirement with his wife beside a lake, minding his own business, going about his daily routine. He'd return home later, probably with some take-out food, inject himself, enjoy his dinner, then drink himself to sleep, never realizing that this would be his last day on earth.

  He shook his head as the fear left him. An odd way to earn a living, but somebody had to do it.

  He needed to do something for the next few hours, so he decided to drive back to town and see a couple of movies. Maybe enjoy a steak for dinner. He loved Ruth's Chris and had already learned there were two in Charlotte.

  Later, he'd return.

  STEPHANIE SAT SILENT IN THE CAR AS DAVIS DROVE DOWN A LEAF-and-gravel drive back toward the highway. She glanced back and saw that the house was nowhere in sight. Thick woods
surrounded them. She'd given Davis the keys and asked him to drive. Luckily he hadn't questioned her, just slid behind the wheel.

  "Stop," she said.

  Rock crunched as the tires crept to a halt.

  "What's your cell phone number?"

  He told her and she punched the digits into hers. She reached for the door handle. "Drive back to the highway and head off a few miles. Pull over somewhere out of sight and wait till I call you."

  "What are you doing?"

  "Playing a hunch."

  MALONE WALKED WITH CHRISTL ACROSS AACHEN'S MARKTPLATZ. Six PM was approaching, and the sun hung low in a sky bruised by storm clouds. The weather had worsened and an icy northern wind sliced into him.

  She led them toward the chapel through the old palace courtyard, a rectangular cobbled plaza twice as long as it was wide, lined with bare trees draped with snow. The surrounding buildings blocked the wind, but not the cold. Children ran about, shouting and talking in a joyous confusion. Aachen's Christmas market filled the courtyard. Every German town seemed to have one. He wondered what his son Gary was doing-now out of school for the holidays. He needed to call. He did at least every couple of days.

  He watched as children rushed toward a new attraction. A droopy-faced man sporting a purple fur robe and a long tapered cap who reminded him of Father Time.

  "St. Nicholas," Christl said. "Our Santa Claus."

  "Quite different."

  He used the happy disorder to confirm that Hatchet Face had followed, staying back, casually examining the booths near a towering blue spruce with electric candles and tiny lights balancing on swaying boughs. He caught the scent of boiling vinegar-gluhwein. A stall selling the spiced port stood a few yards away, gloved patrons cradling steaming brown mugs.

  He pointed to another merchant selling what looked like cookies. "What are they?"

  "A local delicacy. Aachener printen. Spicy gingerbread."

  "Let's have one."

  She threw him a quizzical look.

  "What?" he said. "I like sweets."

  They walked over and he bought two of the flat, hard cookies.

  He tried a bite. "Not bad."

  He'd thought the gesture would help relax Hatchet Face and he was pleased to see that it had. The man remained casual and confident.

  Darkness would be here soon. He'd bought tickets for the chapel's six PM tour earlier when they'd stopped to obtain the guidebooks. He was going to have to improvise. He'd learned from his reading that the chapel was a UNESCO world cultural monument. Burglarizing or damaging it would be a serious offense. But after the monastery in Portugal and St. Mark's in Venice, what did it matter?

  He seemed to specialize in vandalizing world treasures.

  DOROTHEA ENTERED THE MUNICH TRAIN STATION. THE HAUPTBAHNHOF was conveniently located in the city center, about two kilometers from the Marienplatz. Trains from all over Europe arrived and departed by the hour, along with local connections to the underground lines, trams, and buses. The station was not a historical masterpiece-more a modern combination of steel, glass, and concrete. Clocks throughout the interior noted that it was a little past six PM.

  What was happening?

  Apparently Admiral Langford Ramsey wanted Wilkerson dead, but she needed Wilkerson.

  Actually, she liked him.

  She glanced around and spotted the tourist office. A quick survey of the benches offered no sight of Wilkerson, but through the crowd she spotted a man.

  His tall frame sported a three-button glen-plaid suit and leather oxfords beneath a wool coat. A dull Burberry scarf draped his neck. He possessed a handsome face with child-like features, though age had clearly added some furrows and valleys. His steel-gray eyes, encircled by wire-framed glasses, appraised her with a penetrating gaze.

  Her husband.

  Werner Lindauer.

  He stepped close. "Guten abend, Dorothea."

  She did not know what to say. Their marriage was entering its twenty-third year, a union that, in the beginning, had been productive. But over the last decade she'd come to resent his perpetual whining and lack of appreciation for anything beyond his own self-interest. His only saving point had been his devotion to Georg, their son. But Georg's death five years ago had chiseled a wide divide between them. Werner had been devastated and so had she, but they'd handled their grief differently. She withdrew into herself. He became angry. Ever since she'd simply led her life and allowed him to lead his, neither answering to the other.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked.

  "I came for you."

  She was not in the mood for his antics. Occasionally, he'd tried to be a man, more a passing fancy than a fundamental change.

  She wanted to know, "How did you know I'd be here?"

  "Captain Sterling Wilkerson told me."

  Her shock evolved into dread.

  "Interesting man," he said. "A gun to his head and he simply can't stop talking."

  "What have you done?" she asked, not concealing her astonishment.

  His gaze zeroed in. "A great deal, Dorothea. We have a train to catch."

  "I'm not going anywhere with you."

  Werner seemed to restrain a surge of annoyance. Perhaps he hadn't contemplated that reaction. But his lips relaxed into a reassuring smile that actually frightened her. "Then you shall lose your mother's challenge with your dear sister. Does that not matter?"

  She'd had no idea he was aware of what was happening. She'd told him nothing. Clearly, though, her husband was well informed.

  Finally, she asked, "Where are we going?"

  "To see our son."

  STEPHANIE WATCHED AS EDWIN DAVIS DROVE OFF. SHE THEN switched her phone to silent, buttoned her coat, and plunged into the woods. Old-growth pines and bare hardwoods, many vined with mistletoe, stretched overhead. Winter had only minimally thinned the underbrush. She advanced the hundred yards back toward the house slowly, a heavy layer of pine needles silencing her steps.

  She'd seen the hanger moving. No doubt. But was it a mistake by her, or by the person she'd sensed inside?

  She repeatedly told her agents to trust their instincts. Nothing worked better than common sense. Cotton Malone had been a master of that. She wondered what he was doing right now. He hadn't called back concerning the information on Zachary Alexander or the rest of Holden's command staff.

  Had he found trouble, too?

  The house appeared, its form broken by the many trees that stood in between. She crouched behind one of the trunks.

  Everyone, no matter how good they may be, eventually screwed up. The trick was being there when it happened. If Davis was to be believed, Zachary Alexander and David Sylvian had been murdered by someone expertly able to mask those deaths. And though he hadn't voiced his reservations, she'd detected them when Davis told her how Millicent had died.

  Her heart stopped.

  Davis was playing a hunch, too.

  The hanger.

  It had moved.

  And she'd wisely not revealed what she'd seen in the bedroom, deciding to see if Herbert Rowland was, in fact, next.

  The door to the house opened and a short, thin man wearing jeans and boots stepped out.

  He hesitated, then his darkened form trotted away, disappearing into the woods. Her heart raced. Son of a bitch.

  What had he done in there?

  She found her phone and dialed Davis's number, which was answered after one ring.

  "You were right," she told him.

  "About what?"

  "Like you said with Langford Ramsey. Everything. Absolutely everything."

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  AACHEN, 6:15 PM

  MALONE FOLLOWED THE TOUR GROUP BACK INTO THE CENTRAL octagon of Charlemagne's chapel. Inside was fifty degrees warmer than outdoors, and he was grateful to be out of the cold. The tour guide spoke English. About twenty people had bought tickets, Hatchet Face not among them. For some reason their shadow had decided to wait outside. Perhaps the close confines had advised ca
ution. The lack of a crowd may have also played into his decision. The chairs beneath the dome were empty, only the tour group and a dozen or so other visitors loitering about.

  A flash strobed the walls as someone snapped a picture. One of the attendants hustled toward the woman with the camera.

  "There's a fee," Christl whispered, "for taking pictures."

  He watched as the visitor forked over a few euros and the man provided her a wristband.

  "Now she's legal?" he asked.

  Christl grinned. "It takes money to maintain this place."

  He listened as the guide explained about the chapel, most of the information a regurgitation of what he'd read in the guidebooks. He'd wanted to take the tour because only paid groups were allowed in certain parts, upstairs particularly, where the imperial throne was located.

  They wandered with the visitors into one of seven side chapels that jutted from the Carolingian core. This one was St. Michael's-recently renovated, the guide explained. Wooden pews faced a marble altar. Several of the group paused to light candles. Malone noticed a door in what he determined to be the west wall and recalled that it should be the other exit he'd discovered while reading the guidebooks. The heavy wooden slab hung closed. He casually wandered through the dim interior while the guide droned on about the history. At the door, he paused and quickly tested the latch. Locked.

  "What are you doing?" Christl asked.

  "Solving your problem."

  They followed the tour, heading past the main altar toward the gothic choir, another area only open to paying groups. He stopped within the octagon and studied a mosaic inscription that encircled above the lower arches. Black Latin letters on a gold background. Christl carried the plastic shopping bag that held the guidebooks. He quickly found the one he recalled, a thin pamphlet appropriately titled A Small Guide to Aachen Cathedral, and noted that the Latin in the printed text matched the mosaic.