With the cat out of the bag, Gray proceeded more directly. “The Bible belonged to Charles Darwin. We believe it was once a part of your family’s library. We were wondering if we could ask your father more about it.”
The clerk eyed the Bible with less derision. “The library was sold off before my father took over this place,” he said slowly. “I never did get to see it. I’ve heard from neighbors that it had been in the family going back centuries.”
The clerk stepped around the reception desk and led the way past the hearth to an arched opening into a small neighboring hall. One wall was lined by tall thin windows, giving the room a cloistered feel. The opposite wall held a cold hearth large enough to walk into upright. The room was filled with rows of tables and benches, but it was empty, except for an older woman in a smock who swept the floor.
“This was the old family library and study. Now it’s the hostel’s dining hall. My father refused to sell the estate, but there were back taxes. I suppose that was why the library was sold half a century ago. My father had to auction off most of the original furnishings. Each generation, a bit of history vanishes.”
“A shame,” Gray said.
The clerk nodded and turned away. “Let me call my father. See if he’s willing to talk to you.”
A few moments later, the clerk waved to them and guided them to wide-set double doors. He unlocked the way and held the door. It led to the private section of the estate.
The clerk introduced himself as Ryan Hirszfeld as he marched them to the back of the house and out into a glass-and-bronze conservatory. Potted ferns and colorful bromeliads lined the walls. Stepped shelves climbed one windowed side, crowded with a mix of specimen plants, some looking like weeds. At the back, a lone palm tree rose, its crown brushing against the glass roof, some fronds yellowing in neglect. There was an old, overgrown feel to the place, unkempt and untended. The feeling was enhanced by the drizzle of water leaking through a cracked pane, trailing into a bucket.
The sunroom was far from sunny.
In the center of the conservatory, a frail man sat in a wheelchair, a blanket over his lap, staring out toward the back of the property. Rainwater sluiced across all the surfaces, making the world beyond appear insubstantial and unreal.
Ryan went to him, almost shyly. “Vater. Hier sind die Leute mit der Bibel.”
“Auf Englisch, Ryan…auf Englisch.” The man hauled on one wheel and the chair turned to face them. His skin looked paper thin. His voice wheezed. Suffering from emphysema, Gray guessed.
Ryan, the son, wore a pained expression. Gray wondered if he was even aware of it.
“I am Johann Hirszfeld,” the old man said. “So you’ve come to inquire about the old library. Certainly has been a lot of interest lately. Not a word for decades. Now twice in one year.”
Gray remembered Fiona’s story of the mysterious elderly gentleman who had visited Grette’s bookshop and searched through their files. He must have seen the bill of lading and followed the same path here.
“Ryan says you have one of the books.”
“The Darwin Bible,” Gray said.
The old man held out his hands. Fiona stepped forward and placed it in his palms. He settled it to his lap. “Haven’t seen this since I was a boy,” he wheezed. He glanced up at his son. “Danke, Ryan. You should see to the front desk.”
Ryan nodded, stepping back reluctantly, then turned and left.
Johann waited for his son to shut the conservatory door, then sighed, his eyes returning to the Bible. He opened the front cover, checking the Darwin family tree inside. “This was one of my family’s most cherished possessions. The Bible was a gift to my great-grandfather in 1901 from the British Royal Society. He had been a distinguished botanist at the turn of the century.”
Gray heard the melancholy in the man’s voice.
“Our family has a long tradition of scientific study and accomplishments. Nothing along the lines of Herr Darwin, but we’ve made a few footnotes.” His eyes drifted back to the rain and watery property. “That’s long over. Now I guess we’ll have to be known as hoteliers.”
“About the Bible,” Gray said. “Can you tell me anything else about it? Was the library always kept here?”
“Natürlich. Some books were taken out into the field when one or another of my relatives went abroad for research. But this book only left the household once. I only know that because I was here when it was returned. Mailed back by my grandfather. Caused a stir here.”
“Why’s that?”
“I thought you might ask. That’s why I sent Ryan out. Best he not know.”
“Ask about what?”
“My grandfather Hugo worked for the Nazis. As did his daughter, my aunt Tola. The two of them were inseparable. I learned later, whispered scandalously among the relatives, that they were involved in some secret research project. Both were noted and distinguished biologists.”
“What sort of research?” Monk asked.
“No one ever knew. Both my grandfather and Aunt Tola died at the end of the war. But a month before that, a crate arrived from my grandfather. It contained the part of the library he had taken with him. Maybe he knew he was doomed and wanted to preserve the books. Five books actually.” The man tapped the Bible. “This was one of them. Though what he might want with the Bible as a research tool, no one could tell me.”
“Maybe a piece of home,” Fiona said, softly.
Johann seemed finally to see the young girl. He slowly nodded. “Maybe. Perhaps some connection to his own father. Some symbolic stamp of approval for what he was doing.” The old man shook his head. “Working for the Nazis. Horrible business.”
Gray remembered something Ryan had said. “Wait. But you’re Jewish, aren’t you?”
“Yes. But you have to understand, my great-grandmother, Hugo’s mother, was German, with deep local family roots. Which included connections within the Nazi party. Even when Hitler’s pogrom began, our family was spared. We were classified as Mischlinge, mixed blood. Enough German to avoid a death sentence. But to prove that loyalty, my grandfather and aunt found themselves recruited by the Nazis. They were gathering scientists like squirrels after nuts.”
“So they were forced,” Gray said.
Johann stared out into the storm. “It was complicated times. My grandfather held some strange beliefs.”
“Like what?”
Johann seemed not to hear the question. He opened the Bible and flipped through the pages. Gray noted the hand-inked marks. He stepped forward and pointed to a few of the hand-drawn hash marks.
“We were wondering what those were,” Gray said.
“Are you familiar with the Thule Society?” the old man asked, seeming not to hear his question.
Gray shook his head.
“They were an extreme German nationalistic group. My grandfather was a member, initiated when he was twenty-two. His mother’s family had ties with the founding members. They believed deeply in the Übermensch philosophy.”
“Übermensch. Supermen.”
“Correct. The society was named after a mythical land of Thule, some remnant of the lost kingdom of Atlantis, a land of some superrace.”
Monk made a dismissive noise.
“As I said,” Johann wheezed, “my grandfather held a few strange beliefs. But he was not in the minority at the time. Especially here locally. It was in these forests that the ancient Germanic Teuton tribes held off the Roman legions, defining the boundary between Germany and the Roman Empire. The Thule Society believed that these Teutonic warriors were descendants of this lost superrace.”
Gray understood the appeal of the myth. If these ancient German warriors were supermen, then their descendants—modern Germans—still carried the genetic heritage. “It was the beginning of the Aryan philosophy.”
“Their beliefs were also mixed up with much mysticism and occult trappings. I never understood it all. But according to my family, my grandfather was unusually inquisitive. Always searching
up strange things, investigating historical mysteries. In his spare time, he was ever keen about sharpening his mind. Memorization tricks, jigsaw puzzles. Always with the jigsaw puzzles. Then he discovered some of the occult stories and sought the truth behind them. It became an obsession.”
As he spoke, the old man’s attention had returned to the Bible. He riffled through the pages. He finally reached the end and searched the inside back cover. “Das ist merkwürdig.”
Merkwürdig. Strange.
Gray stepped closer, looking over the man’s shoulder.
“What?”
The old man ran a bony finger down the inside cover. He flipped to the front, then back again. “The Darwin family tree. It wasn’t just written on the inside of the front…but also on the back. I was only a boy at the time, but I remember that clearly.”
Johann held up the book. “The family tree at the back is gone.”
“Let me see.” Gray took the book. He examined the inside of the end cover more closely. Fiona and Monk flanked him.
He ran a finger along the binding, then examined the back cover closely.
“Look here,” he said. “It looks like someone sliced free the back flyleaf page of the Bible and glued it over the inside of the back cover. Over the original pastedown.” Gray glanced to Fiona. “Would Grette have done that?”
“Not a chance. She would rather rip apart the Mona Lisa.”
If not Grette…
Gray glanced to Johann.
“I’m sure no one in my family would’ve done that. The library was sold only a few years after the war. After it was mailed back here, I doubt anyone touched the Bible.”
That left only Hugo Hirszfeld.
“Knife,” Gray said and crossed to a garden table.
Monk reached to his pack and unhooked a Swiss Army knife. He opened it and passed it to Gray. Using the tip, Gray razored the edges of the back sheet, then teased a corner up. The thick flyleaf lifted easily. Only the edges had been glued.
Johann wheeled his chair to join them. He had to push up with his arms to see over the table’s edge. Gray did not hide what he was doing. He might need the man’s cooperation for whatever was exposed.
He removed the flyleaf and revealed the original pasteboard of the cover. Neatly written upon it was the other half of the Darwin family tree. Johann had been correct. But that was not all that was there now.
“Horrible,” Johann said. “Why would Grandfather do that? Deface the Bible so?”
Superimposed over the family tree, inked across the entire page in black, dug deep into the backboard of the Bible, was a strange symbol.
In the same ink, a single line in German had been penned below it.
Gott, verzeihen mir.
Gray translated.
God, forgive me.
Monk pointed to the symbol. “What is that?”
“A rune,” Johann said, scowling and dropping back into his seat. “More of my grandfather’s madness.”
Gray turned to him.
Johann explained. “The Thule Society believed in rune magic. Ancient power and rites associated with the Nordic symbols. As the Nazis took to heart the Thule’s philosophy of supermen, they also absorbed the mysticism about runes.”
Gray was familiar with the Nazi symbology and its ties to runes, but what did it mean here?
“Do you know the significance of this particular symbol?” Gray asked.
“No. It’s not a subject a German Jew would find of interest. Not after the war.” Johann turned his wheelchair and stared out at the storm. Thunder rumbled, sounding far away and close at the same time. “But I know who might be able to help you. A curator at the museum up there.”
Gray closed the Bible and joined Johann. “What museum?”
A crackle of lightning lit the conservatory. Johann pointed upward. Gray craned. In the fading light, veiled in rain, rose the massive castle.
“Historisches Museum des Hochstifts Paderborn,” Johann said. “It is open today. Inside the castle.” The old man scowled at his neighbor. “They’ll certainly know what the symbol means.”
“Why’s that?” Gray asked.
Johann stared at him as though he were a simpleton. “Who better? That is Wewelsburg Castle.” When Gray didn’t respond, the old man continued with a sigh. “Himmler’s Black Camelot. The stronghold of the Nazi SS.”
“So it was Dracula’s castle,” Monk mumbled.
Johann continued, “Back in the seventeenth century, witch trials were held up there, thousands of women tortured and executed. Himmler only added to its blood debt. Twelve hundred Jews from the Niederhagen concentration camp died during Himmler’s reconstruction of the castle. A cursed place. Should be torn down.”
“But the museum there,” Gray asked, directing Johann away from his growing anger. The man’s wheezing had worsened. “They would know about the rune?”
A nod. “Heinrich Himmler was a member of the Thule Society, steeped in rune lore. In fact, it was how my grandfather was brought to his attention. They shared an obsession with runes.”
Gray sensed a convergence of ties and events, all centered on this occult Thule Society. But what? He needed more information. A trip to the castle museum was doubly warranted.
Johann wheeled himself away from Gray, dismissing him. “It was because of such common interests with my grandfather that Himmler granted our family, a family of Mischlinge, the pardon. We were spared the camps.”
Because of Himmler.
Gray understood the root of the man’s anger…and why he had asked his son to leave the room. It was a family burden best left undiscovered. Johann stared out into the storm.
Gray collected the Bible and waved everyone out. “Danke,” he called back to the old man.
Johann did not acknowledge him, lost in the past.
Gray and the others were soon out on the front porch again. The rain continued to pour out of low skies. The courtyard was deserted. There would be no biking or hiking today.
“Let’s go,” Gray said and headed into the rain.
“Perfect day to storm a castle,” Monk said sarcastically.
As they hurried across the courtyard, Gray noted a new car parked next to theirs. Empty. Engine steaming in the cold rain. Must have just arrived.
An ice-white Mercedes.
9
SABOTEUR
12:32 P.M.
HIMALAYAS
“Where is the signal coming from?” Anna asked.
The woman had rushed into the maintenance room, responding immediately to Gunther’s call. She had arrived alone, claiming Lisa had wanted to remain behind in the library to follow up on some research. Painter thought it more likely that Anna still wanted to keep them apart.
Just as well that Lisa was out of harm’s way.
Especially if they were truly on the track of the saboteur.
Leaning closer to the laptop screen, Painter massaged the tips of his fingers. A persistent tingling itched behind his nails. He stopped rubbing long enough to point at the three-dimensional schematic of the castle.
“Best estimate is this region,” Painter said, tapping the screen. He had been surprised to see how extensively the castle spread into the mountain. It hollowed right through the peak. The signal came from the far side. “But it’s not a pinpoint. The saboteur would need a clear line of sight to use his satellite phone.”
Anna straightened. “The helipad is there.”
Gunther nodded with a grunt.
On the screen, the overlay of pulsing lines suddenly collapsed. “He’s ended the call,” Painter said. “We’ll have to move fast.”
Anna turned to Gunther. “Contact Klaus. Have his men close off the helipad. Now.”
Gunther swung to a phone receiver on the wall and started the lockdown. The plan had been to search everyone in the signal vicinity, discover who had an illicit sat-phone in their possession.
Anna returned to Painter. “Thank you for your help. We’ll search from here.” r />
“I may be of further help.” Painter had been busy typing on the laptop. He memorized the number that appeared on the screen, then detached his hand-built signal amplifier from the castle’s ground wire. He straightened. “But I’ll need one of your portable satellite phones.”
“I can’t leave you here with a phone,” Anna said, knuckling her temple and wincing. Headache.
“You don’t have to leave me. I’m going with you to the helipad.”
Gunther stepped forward, his usual frown deepening.
Anna waved him back. “We don’t have time to argue.” But something silent passed between the large man and his sister. A warning for the big man to keep an eye on Painter.
Anna led the way out.
Painter followed, still rubbing his fingers. The nails had begun to burn. He studied them for the first time, expecting the nail beds to be inflamed, but instead, his fingernails were oddly blanched, bled of color.
Frostbite?
Gunther passed him one of the castle’s phones, noted Painter’s attention, and shook his head. He held out a hand. Painter didn’t understand—then noted the man was missing the fingernails on his last three fingers.
Gunther lowered his arm and marched after Anna.
Painter clenched and unclenched his hands. So the tingling burn wasn’t frostbite. The quantum disease was advancing. He recalled Anna’s list of debilitations in the Bell’s test subjects: loss of fingers, ears, toes. Not unlike leprosy.
How much time?
As they headed toward the far side of the mountain, Painter studied Gunther. The man had lived his whole life with a sword hanging over his head. Chronic and progressive wasting, followed by madness. Painter was headed for the Reader’s Digest version of the same condition. He could not deny it terrified him—not so much the debilitation as the loss of his mind.
How long did he have?
Gunther must have sensed his reverie. “I will not let this happen to Anna,” he growled under his breath to Painter. “I will do anything to stop it.”
Painter was again reminded that the pair were brother and sister. Only after learning this did Painter see subtle similarities of feature: curve of lip, sculpt of chin, identical frown lines. Family. But the similarities ended there. Anna’s dark hair, emerald rich eyes contrasted sharply with her brother’s washed-out appearance. Only Gunther had been born under the Bell, one child sacrificed, a tithing in blood, and the last of the Sonnekönige.