Hatchet Face was still following and had entered another café diagonally across from where he and Christl were seated.
Malone had asked for and received a table not at, but near, the window, where he could keep an eye outside.
He wondered about their shadow. Only one meant he was dealing with either amateurs or people too cheap to hire enough help. Perhaps Hatchet Face thought himself so good that no one would ever notice? He’d many times met
operatives with similar egos.
He’d already skimmed through three of the guidebooks. Just as Christl had said, Charlemagne had considered the chapel his “new Jerusalem.” Centuries later Barbarossa confirmed that declaration when he donated the copper-gilded chandelier. Earlier Malone had noticed a Latin inscription on the chandelier’s bands, and a translation appeared in one of the books. The first line read, “Here thou appearest in the picture, O Jerusalem, celestial Zion, Tabernacle of peace for us and hope of blessed rest.”
The ninth-century historian Notker was quoted as saying that Charlemagne had the chapel built “in accordance with a conception of his own,” its length, breadth, and height symbolically related. Work had started sometime around 790 to 800CE , and the building was consecrated on January 6, 805, by Pope Leo III, in the presence of the emperor.
He reached for another of the books. “I assume you’ve studied the history of Charlemagne’s time in detail?”
She nursed a glass of wine. “It’s my field. The Carolingian period is one of transition for Western civilization. Before him, Europe was a seething madhouse of conflicting races, incomparable ignorance, and massive political chaos.
Charlemagne created the first centralized government north of the Alps.”
“Yet everything he achieved failed after his death. His empire crumbled. His son and grandchildren destroyed it all.”
“But what he believed took root. He thought the first object of government should be the welfare of its people. Peasants were, to him, human beings worth thinking about. He governed not for his glory, but for the common good. He said many times that his mission was not to spread his empire, but to keep one.”
“Yet he conquered new territory.”
“Minimally. Territory here and there for specific purposes. He was a revolutionary in nearly every way. Rulers of his day gathered men of brawn, archers, warriors, but he summoned scholars and teachers.”
“Still, it all vanished and Europe lingered another four hundred years before real change occurred.”
She nodded. “That seems the fate of most great rulers. Charlemagne’s heirs were not as wise. He was married many times and fathered lots of children. No one knows how many. His firstborn, Pippin, a hunchback, never had the chance to reign.”
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 reaf
firmation.”
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
CHARLIESMITH 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 ASDAVIS 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 WITHCHRISTL ACROSSAACHEN’SMARKTPLATZ. SixPM 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— glühwein. 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 sixPM 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 THEMUNICH TRAIN STATION. THEHAUPTBAHNHOFwas 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 sixPM .
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 di
d 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.”