BAVARIA

MALONE LISTENED TO ISABEL OBERHAUSER .

I married my husband long ago. But, as you can see, both he and his father harbored secrets.

Was your husband also a Nazi?

She shook her head. He simply believed that Germany was never the same after the war. I daresay he was right.

Not answering questions seemed a family trait. She studied him with a calculating gaze and he noticed a tremor that shook her right eye. Her breath came in low wheezes. And only the tick of a clock from somewhere nearby disturbed the intoxicating tranquility.

Herr Malone, I'm afraid my daughters have not been honest with you.

That's the first thing I've heard today that I agree with.

Since my husband died, I've been supervising the family wealth. It's an enormous task. Our extensive holdings are wholly owned by the family. Unfortunately, there are no more Oberhausers. My mother-in-law was a hopeless incompetent who, mercifully, died a few years after Hermann. All of the other close relatives either perished in the war or died in the years after. My husband controlled the family when he was alive. He was the last of Hermann's children. Hermann himself lost his mind completely by the mid-1950s. We call it Alzheimer's today, but then it was just senility. Every family wrestles with its succession, and the time has come for my children to take control of this family. Never have Oberhauser assets been divided. Always there have been sons. But my husband and I birthed daughters. Two strong women, each different. To prove themselves, to force them to accept reality, they are on a quest.

This is a game?

The corners of her eyebrows turned down. Not at all. It is a search for the truth. My husband, though I loved him dearly, was, like his father, consumed by foolishness. Hitler openly denied Hermann and that rejection, I believe, contributed to his mental downfall. My husband was equally weak. Making decisions proved difficult for him. Sadly, all their lives, my daughters have fought each other. Never were they close. Their father was a source of that friction. Dorothea manipulated his weaknesses, used them. Christl resented them and rebelled. They were both only ten when he died, but their differing relationships with their father seems best how to define them now. Dorothea is practical, grounded, rooted in reality seeking the complacent man. Christl is the dreamer, a believer she seeks the strong. They are now engaged in a quest, one neither of them fully comprehends Thanks to you, I assume.

She nodded. I confess to retaining a certain element of control. But much is at stake here. Literally everything.

What's everything?

This family owns many manufacturing concerns, an oil refinery, several banks, stocks around the globe. Billions of euros.

Two people died today as part of this game.

I'm aware of that, but Dorothea wanted the file on Blazek. It's part of that reality she craves. Apparently, though, she decided that you were not a route to her success and abandoned the effort. I suspected that would be the case. So I made sure Christl had the opportunity to speak with you.

You sent Christl to the Zugspitze?

She nodded. Ulrich was there to watch over her.

What if I don't want any part of this?

Her watery eyes conveyed a look of annoyance. Come now, Herr Malone, let's not you and I fool each other. I'm being straightforward. Could I ask the same from you? You want to know, as badly as I do, what happened thirty-eight years ago. My husband and your father died together. The difference between you and I is that I knew he was going to Antarctica. I just didn't realize I would never see him again.

His mind reeled. This woman possessed a lot of firsthand knowledge.

He was in search of the Watchers, she said. The Holy Ones.

You can't really believe that such people existed.

Einhard believed. They're mentioned in the will you hold. Hermann believed. Dietz gave his life for the belief. Actually, they've been called many things by many different cultures. The Aztecs named them Feathered Serpents, supposedly great white men with red beards. The Bible, in the Book of Genesis, calls them Elohim. The Sumerians tagged them as Anunnaki. The Egyptians knew them as Akhu, Osiris, and the Shemsu Hor. Hinduism and Buddhism both describe them. Ja, Herr Malone, on this Christl and I agree, they are real. They influenced even Charlemagne himself.

She was talking nonsense. Frau Oberhauser, we're speaking about things that happened thousands of years ago

My husband was utterly convinced the Watchers still exist.

He realized that the world had been a different place in 1971. No global media, GPS tracking systems, geosynchronous satellites, or Internet. Staying hidden then was actually possible. Not anymore. This is ridiculous.

So why did the Americans agree to take him there?

He could see that she possessed the answer to her own question.

Because they had searched, too. After the war they went to Antarctica in a massive military jaunt called Highjump. My husband spoke of it many times. They went in search of what Hermann found in 1938. Dietz always believed the Americans discovered something during Highjump. Many years passed. Then, about six months before he left for the Antarctic, some of your military came here and met with Dietz. They talked of Highjump and were privy to Hermann's research. Apparently some of his books and papers had been part of what they confiscated after the war.

He recalled what Christl had just said to him. It could matter a great deal. In fact, it could literally change the world. Ordinarily he would consider this whole thing nuts, but the US government had sent one of its most advanced submarines to investigate, then totally covered up its sinking.

Dietz wisely chose the Americans over the Soviets. They came here also, wanting his help, but he hated communists.

Do you have any idea what's in Antarctica?

She shook her head. I've wondered a long time. I knew of Einhard's will, the Holy Ones, the two books Dorothea and Christl have. I've sincerely wanted to know what is there. So my daughters are solving the riddle and, in the process, hopefully learning they may indeed need each other.

That may prove impossible. They seem to despise each other.

Her eyes found the floor. No two sisters could hate each other more. But my life will end soon, and I must know that the family will endure.

And resolve your own doubts?

She nodded. Precisely. You must understand, Herr Malone, we find what we search for.

That's what Christl said.

Her father said that many times and, on that, he was right.

Why am I involved?

Dorothea initially made that decision. She saw you as a means to learn about the submarine. I suspect she rejected you because of your strength. That would truly frighten her. I chose you because Christl can benefit from your strength. But you are also someone who can level things for her.

As if he cared. But he knew what was coming.

And by helping us, you may be able solve your own dilemma.

I've always worked alone.

We know things you don't.

That, he couldn't deny. Have you heard from Dorothea? There's a dead body in the abbey.

Christl told me, she said. Ulrich will deal with that, as he will deal with the one here. I'm concerned about who else has involved themselves in this matter, but I believe you're the most qualified person to solve that complication.

His adrenaline rush from upstairs was rapidly being replaced with fatigue. The gunman came here for me and Dorothea. He didn't say anything about Christl.

I heard him. Christl has explained to you about Einhard and Charlemagne. That document you're holding clearly contains a challenge a pursuit. You've seen the book, written in Einhard's hand. And the one from Charlemagne's grave, which only a Holy Roman Emperor was entitled to receive. This is real, Herr Malone. Imagine for a moment if there actually was a first civilization. Think of the ramifications for human history.

He couldn't decide if the old woman was a manipulator, a parasite, or an exploiter. Probably all three. Frau Oberhauser, I could not care less about that. Frankly, I think you're all nuts. I simply want to know where, how, and why my father died. He paused, hoping he wasn't going to regret what he was about to say. If helping you gives me the answer, then that's enough incentive for me.

So you have decided?

I haven't.

Then could I offer you a bed for the night, and you can make your choice tomorrow?

He felt an ache in his bones and did not want to drive back to the Posthotel which might not be the safest haven, anyway, considering the number of uninvited visitors over the past few hours. At least Ulrich was here. Strangely, this made him feel better.

Okay. I won't argue with that suggestion.

Chapter TWENTY-NINE

WASHINGTON, DC

4:30 AM

RAMSEY SLIPPED ON HIS BATHROBE . TIME FOR ANOTHER DAY. IN fact, this could well become the most important day of his life, the first step on a life-defining journey.

He'd dreamed of Millicent and Edwin Davis and NR-1A. A strange combination that wove themselves together in unsettling images. But he was not going to let any fantasy spoil reality. He'd come a long way and within a few hours he'd claim the next prize. Diane McCoy had been right. It was doubtful he'd be the president's first choice to succeed David Sylvian. He knew of at least two others Daniels would certainly nominate ahead of him assuming that the decision would be the White House's alone. Thank goodness free choice was a rarity in Washington politics.

He descended to the first floor and entered his study just as his cell phone rang. He carried the thing constantly. The display indicated an overseas exchange. Good. Since speaking to Wilkerson earlier, he'd been waiting to know if the apparent failure had been reversed.

Those packages for Christmas you ordered, the voice said. We're sorry to say they may not arrive in time.

He quelled a renewed anger. And the reason for the delay?

We thought there was inventory in our warehouse, but discovered that none was on hand.

Your inventory problems are not my concern. I prepaid weeks ago, expecting prompt delivery.

We're aware of that and plan to make sure delivery occurs on time. We just wanted you to be aware of a slight delay.

If it requires priority shipping, then incur the cost. It does not matter to me. Just make the deliveries.

We're tracking the packages now and should be able to verify delivery shortly.

Make sure you do, he said, and clicked off.

Now he was agitated. What was happening in Germany? Wilkerson still alive? And Malone? Two loose ends he could ill afford. But there was nothing he could do. He had to trust the assets on the ground. They'd performed well before and hopefully would this time.

He switched on the desk lamp.

One of the things that had attracted him to this town house, besides its location, size, and ambience, was a cabinet safe the owner had discreetly installed. Not flawless by any means, but enough protection for files brought home overnight, or the few folders he privately maintained.

He opened the concealed wooden panel and punched in a digital code.

Six files stood upright inside.

He removed the first one on the left.

Charlie Smith was not only an excellent killer, but also gathered information with the zeal of a squirrel locating winter nuts. He seemed to love discovering secrets that people went to great lengths to hide. Smith had spent the past two years collecting facts. Some of it was being used right now, and the rest would be brought into play over the next few days, as needed.

He opened the folder and reacquainted himself with the details.

Amazing how a public persona could be so different from the private person. He wondered how politicos maintained their fatades. It had to be difficult. Urges and desires pointed one way career and image jerked them another.

Senator Aatos Kane was a perfect example.

Fifty-six years old. A fourth-termer from Michigan, married, three children. A career politician since his midtwenties, first at the state level then in the US Senate. Daniels had considered him for vice president when a vacancy came available last year, but Kane had declined, saying that he appreciated the White House's confidence but believed he could serve the president better by staying in the Senate. Michigan had breathed a sigh of relief. Kane was rated by several congressional watchdog groups as one of Congress's most effective purveyors of pork barrel legislation. Twenty-two years on Capitol Hill had taught Aatos Kane all of the right lessons.

And the most important?

All politics were local.

Ramsey smiled. He loved negotiable souls.

Dorothea Lindauer's question still rang in his ears. Is there anything there to find? He hadn't thought about that trip to Antarctic in years.

How many times had they gone ashore?

Four?

The ship's captain Zachary Alexander had been an inquisitive sort, but, per orders, Ramsey had kept their mission secret. Only the radio receiver his team brought on board had been tuned to NR-1A's emergency transponder. No signal had ever been heard by monitoring stations in the Southern Hemisphere. Which had made the ultimate cover-up easier. No radiation had been detected. It was thought that a signal and radiation might be more discernible closer to the source. In those days ice had a tendency to wreak havoc with sensitive electronics. So they'd listened and monitored the water for two days as Holden patrolled the Weddell Sea, a place of howling winds, luminous purple clouds, and ghostly halos around a weak sun.

Nothing.

Then they'd taken the equipment ashore.

What do you have? he asked Lt. Herbert Rowland.

The man was excited. Signal bearing two hundred and forty degrees.

He stared out across a dead continent swathed in a mile-thick shroud of ice. Eight degrees below zero and nearly summer. A signal? Here? No way. They were six hundred yards inland from where they'd beached their boat, the terrain as flat and broad as the sea; it was impossible to know if water or earth lay below. Off to the right and ahead, mountains rose like teeth over the glittery white tundra.

Signal definite at two hundred and forty degrees, Rowland repeated.

Sayers, he called out to the third member of the team.

The remaining lieutenant was fifty yards ahead, checking for fissures. Perception was a constant problem. White snow, white sky, even the air was white with constant breath clouds. This was a place of mummified emptiness, to which the human eye was little better adjusted than pitch darkness.

It's the damn sub, Rowland said, his attention still on the receiver.

He could still feel the absolute cold that had enveloped him in that shadowless land where palls of gray-green fog materialized in an instant. They'd been plagued by bad weather, low ceilings, dense clouds, and constant wind. During every Northern Hemisphere winter he'd experienced since, he'd compared its ferocity with the intensity of an ordinary Antarctic day. Four days he'd spent there four days he'd never forgotten.

You can't imagine,he'd told Dorothea Lindauer in answer to her question.

He stared down into the safe.

Beside the folders lay a journal.

Thirty-eight years ago naval regulations required that commanding officers on all seagoing vessels maintain one.

He slid the book free.

Chapter THIRTY

ATLANTA, 7:22 AM

STEPHANIE ROUSED EDWIN DAVIS FROM A SOUND SLEEP . HE CAME up with a start, at first disoriented until he realized where he lay.

You snore, she said.

Even through a closed door and down the hall, she'd heard him during the night.

So I'm told. I do that when I'm really tired.

And who tells you that?

He swiped the sleep from his eyes. He lay on the bed fully dressed, his cell phone beside him. They'd arrived back in Atlanta a little before midnight on the last flight from Jacksonville. He'd suggested a hotel, but she'd insisted on her guest room.

I'm not a monk, he declared.

She knew little of his private life. Unmarried, that much she did know. But had he ever been? Any children? Now, though, was not the time to pry. You need a shave.

He rubbed his chin. So good of you to point that out.

She headed for the door. There's towels and some razors girlie ones, I'm afraid in the hall bath.

She'd already showered and dressed, ready for whatever the day might hold.

Yes, ma'am, he said, standing. You run a tight ship.

She left him and entered the kitchen, switching on the counter television. Rarely did she eat much breakfast beyond a muffin or some wheat flakes, and she detested coffee. Green tea usually was her choice of a hot beverage. She needed to check with the office. Having a nearly nonexistent staff helped with security but was hell on delegating.

it's going to be interesting, a CNN reporter was saying. President Daniels has recently voiced much displeasure with the Joint Chiefs of Staff. In a speech two weeks ago he hinted whether that entire chain of command was even needed.

The screen shifted to Daniels standing before a blue podium.

They don't command anything, he said in his trademark baritone. They're advisers. Politicians. Policy repeaters, not makers. Don't get me wrong. I have great respect for these men. It's the institution itself I have problems with. There's no question that the talents of the officers now on the Joint Chiefs could be better utilized in other capacities.

Back to the reporter, a perky brunette. All of which makes you wonder if, or how, he'll fill the vacancy caused by the untimely death of Admiral David Sylvian.

Davis walked into the kitchen, his gaze locked on the television.

She noticed his interest. What is it?

He stood silent, sullen, preoccupied. Finally, he said, Sylvian is the navy's man on the Joint Chiefs.

She didn't understand. She'd read about the motorcycle accident and Sylvian's injuries. It's unfortunate he died, Edwin, but what's the matter?

He reached into his pocket and found his phone. A few punches of the keys and he said, I need to know how Admiral Sylvian died. Exact cause, and fast.

He ended the call.

Are you going to explain? she asked.

Stephanie, there's more to Langford Ramsey. About six months ago the president received a letter from the widow of a navy lieutenant

The phone gave a short clicking sound. Davis studied the screen and answered. He listened a few moments then ended the call.

That lieutenant worked in the navy's general accounting office. He'd noticed irregularities. Several million dollars channeled to bank after bank, then the money simply disappeared. The accounts were all attached to naval intelligence, director's office.

The intelligence business runs on covert money, she said. I have several blind accounts that I use for outside payments, contract help, that kind of thing.

That lieutenant died two days before he was scheduled to brief his superiors. His widow knew some of what he'd learned, and distrusted everyone in the military. She wrote the president with a personal plea, and the letter was directed to me.

And when you saw Office of Naval Intelligence, your radar went to full alert. So what did you find when you looked into those accounts?

They couldn't be found.

She'd experienced a similar frustration. Banks in various parts of the world were infamous for erasing accounts provided, of course, enough fees were paid by the account holder. So what's got you riled up now?

That lieutenant dropped dead in his house, watching television. His wife went to the grocery store and, when she came home, he was dead.

It happens, Edwin.

His blood pressure bottomed out. He had a heart murmur for which he'd been treated and, you're right, things like that happen. The autopsy found nothing. With his history and no evidence of foul play, the cause of death seemed easy.

She waited.

I was just told that Admiral David Sylvian died from low blood pressure.

His expression mingled disgust, anger, and frustration.

Too much of a coincidence for you? she asked.

He nodded. You and I know Ramsey controlled the accounts that that lieutenant found. And now there's a vacancy on the Joint Chiefs of Staff?

You're reaching, Edwin.

Am I? Disdain laced his tone. My office said they were just about to contact me. Last night, before I dozed off, I ordered two Secret Service agents dispatched to Jacksonville. I wanted them to keep an eye on Zachary Alexander. They arrived an hour ago. His house burned to the ground last night, with him inside.

She was shocked.

Indications are an electrical short from wires beneath the house.

She told herself never to play poker with Edwin Davis. He'd received both bits of news with a nothing face. We have to find those other two lieutenants who were in the Antarctic with Ramsey.

Nick Sayers is dead, he said. Years ago. Herbert Rowland is still alive. He lives outside Charlotte. I had that checked last night, too.

Secret Service? White House staff cooperating? You're full of crap, Edwin. You're not in this alone. You're on a mission.

His eyes flickered. That all depends. If it works, then I'm okay. If I fail, then I'm going down.

You staked your career on this?

I owe it to Millicent.

Why am I here?

Like I told you, Scot Harvath said no. But he told me nobody flies solo better than you.

That rationalization was not necessarily comforting. But what the hell. The line had already been crossed.

Let's head to Charlotte.

Chapter THIRTY-ONE

AACHEN, GERMANY

11:00 AM

MALONE FELT THE TRAIN SLOW AS THEY ENTERED THE OUTSKIRTS of Aachen. Even though his worries from last night had receded into better proportion, he wondered what was he doing here. Christl Falk sat beside him, but the ride north from Garmisch had taken about three hours and they'd said little.

His clothes and toiletries from the Posthotel had been waiting for him when he awoke at Reichshoffen. A note had explained that Ulrich Henn had retrieved them during the night. He'd slept on sheets that smelled of clover then showered, shaved, and changed. Of course, he'd only brought a couple of shirts and pants from Denmark, planning to be gone no more than a day, two at the most. Now he wasn't so sure.

Isabel had been waiting for him downstairs, and he'd informed the Oberhauser matriarch that he'd decided to help. What choice did he have? He wanted to know about his father, and he wanted to know who was trying to kill him. Walking away would lead to nothing. And the old woman had made one point clear. They knew things he didn't.

Twelve hundred years ago, Christl said, this was the center of the secular world. The capital of the newly conceived Northern Empire. What two hundred years later we called the Holy Roman Empire.

He smiled. Which was not holy, nor Roman, nor an empire.

She nodded. True. But Charlemagne was quite the progressive. A man of immense energy, he founded universities, generated legal principles that eventually made their way into the common law, organized the government, and started a nationalism that inspired the creation of Europe. I've studied him for years. He seemed to make all the right decisions. He ruled for forty-seven years and lived to be seventy-four at a time when kings barely lasted five years in power and were dead at thirty.

And you think all that happened because he had help?

He ate in moderation and drank carefully and this was when gluttony and drunkenness ran rampant. He daily rode, hunted, and swam. One reason he chose Aachen for his capital was the hot springs, which he used religiously.

So the Holy Ones taught him about diet, hygiene, and exercise?

He saw she caught his sarcasm.

Characteristically, he was a warrior, she said. His entire reign was marked by conquest. But he took a disciplined approach to war. He'd plan a campaign for at least a year, studying the opposition. He also directed battles as opposed to participating in them.

He was also brutal as hell. At Verden he ordered the beheading of forty-five hundred bound Saxons.

That's not certain, she said. No archaeological evidence of that supposed massacre has ever been found. The original source of the story may have mistakenly used the word decollabat, beheading, when it should have said delocabat, exiling.

You know your history. And your Latin.

None of this is what I think. Einhard was the chronicler. He's the one who made those observations.

Assuming, of course, his writings are authentic.

The train slowed to a crawl.

He was still thinking about yesterday and what lay below Reichshoffen. Does your sister feel the same way about the Nazis, and what they did to your grandfather, as you do?

Dorothea could not care less. Family and history are not important to her.

What is?

Herself.

Strange how twins so resent each other.

There's no rule that says we're to be bonded together. I learned as a child that Dorothea was a problem.

He needed to explore those differences. Your mother seems to play favorites.

I wouldn't assume that.

She sent you to me.

True. But she aided Dorothea early on.

The train came to a stop.

You going to explain that one?

She's the one who gave her the book from Charlemagne's grave.

DOROTHEA FINISHED HER INSPECTIONS OF THE BOXES WILKERSON had retrieved from Fnssen. The book dealer had done well. Many of the Ahnenerbe's records had been seized by the Allies after the war, so she was amazed that so much had been located. But even after reading for the past few hours, the Ahnenerbe remained an enigma. Only in recent years had the organization's existence finally been studied by historians, the few books written on the subject touching mainly on its failures.

These boxes talked of success.

There'd been expeditions to Sweden to retrieve petroglyphs, and to the Middle East, where they'd studied the internal power struggles of the Roman Empire which, to the Ahnenerbe, had been fought between Nordic and Semitic people. G/ring himself funded that journey. In Damascus, Syrians welcomed them as allies to combat a rising Jewish population. In Iran their researchers visited Persian ruins, as well as Babylon, marveling at a possible Aryan connection. In Finland they studied ancient pagan chants. Bavaria yielded cave paintings and evidence of Cro-Magnons, who were, to the Ahnenerbe, surely Aryan. More cave paintings were studied in France where, as one commentator noted, Himmler and so many other Nazis dreamed of standing in the dark embrace of the ancestors.

Asia, though, became a true fascination.

The Ahnenerbe believed early Aryans conquered much of China and Japan and that Buddha himself was an Aryan offspring. A major expedition to Tibet yielded thousands of photographs, head casts, and body measurements, along with exotic animal and plant specimens, all gathered in the hope of proving ancestry. More trips to Bolivia, Ukraine, Iran, Iceland, and the Canary Islands never materialized, though elaborate plans for each journey were detailed.

The records also detailed how, as the war progressed, the Ahnenerbe's role expanded. After Himmler ordered the Aryanization of the conquered Crimea, the Ahnenerbe was charged with replicating German forests and cultivating new crops for the Reich. The Ahnenerbe also supervised the relocation of ethnic Germans to the region, along with the deportation of thousands of Ukrainians.

But as the brain trust grew, more finances were needed.

So a foundation was created to receive donations.

Contributors included Deutsche Bank, BMW, and Daimler-Benz, which were thanked repeatedly in official correspondence. Always innovative, Himmler learned of reflector panels for bicycles that had been patented by a German machinist. He formed a joint company with the inventor and then ensured the passage of a law that required pedals on all bicycles to include the reflectors, which earned tens of thousands of Reichsmarks yearly for the Ahnenerbe.

So much effort had gone into fashioning so much fiction.

But amid the ridiculousness of finding lost Aryans, and the tragedies of participating in organized murder, her grandfather had actually stumbled onto a treasure.

She stared at the old book lying on the table.

Was it indeed from Charlemagne's grave?

Nothing in any of the materials she'd read talked about it, though from what her mother had told her, it had been found in 1935 among the archives of the Weimar Republic, discovered with a message penned by some unknown scribe that attested to its removal from the grave in Aachen on May 19, 1000, by Emperor Otto III. How it managed to survive until the twentieth century remained a mystery. What did it mean? Why was it so important?

Her sister, Christl, believed the answer lay in some mystical appeal.

And Ramsey had failed to alleviate her fears with his cryptic response.

You can't imagine.

But none of that could be the answer.

Or could it?

MALONE AND CHRISTL EXITED THE TRAIN STATION. MOIST, COLD air reminded him of a New England winter. Cabs lined the curb. People came and went in steady streams.

Mother, Christl said, wants me to succeed.

He couldn't decide if she was trying to convince him, or herself. Your mother is manipulating you both.

She faced him. Mr. Malone

My name is Cotton.

She seemed to restrain a surge of annoyance. As you reminded me last night. How did you acquire that odd name?

A story for later. You were about to berate me, before I knocked you off balance.

Her face relaxed into a smile. You're a problem.

From what your mother said, Dorothea thought so, too. But I've decided to take it as a compliment. He rubbed his gloved hands together and looked around. We need to make a stop. Some long underwear would be great. This isn't that dry Bavarian air. How about you? Cold?

I grew up in this weather.

I didn't. In Georgia, where I was born and raised, it's hot and humid nine months out of the year. He continued to survey his surroundings with a disinterested appearance, feigning discomfort. I also need a change of clothes. I didn't pack for a long trip.

There's a shopping district near the chapel.

I assume, at some point, you'll explain about your mother and why we're here?

She motioned for a taxi, which wheeled close.

She opened the door and climbed inside. He followed. She told the driver where they wanted to go.

Ja,she said. I'll explain.

As they left the station, Malone glanced out the rear window. The same man he'd noticed three hours earlier in the Garmisch station tall, with a thin, hatchet-shaped face seamed with wrinkles hailed a cab.

He carried no luggage and seemed intent on only one thing.

Following.

DOROTHEA HAD GAMBLED IN ACQUIRING THE AHNENERBE records. She'd taken a risk contacting Cotton Malone, but she'd proved to herself that he was of little use. Still, she was not certain that the route to success was more pragmatic. One thing seemed clear. Exposing her family to more ridicule was not an option. Occasionally, a researcher or historian contacted Reichshoffen wanting to inspect her grandfather's papers or talk to the family about the Ahnenerbe. Those requests were always refused, and for good reason.

The past should stay in the past.

She stared at the bed and a sleeping Sterling Wilkerson.

They'd driven north last night and taken a room in Munich. Her mother would know of the hunting lodge's destruction before the day ended. The body in the abbey had also surely been found. Either the monks or Henn would dispose of the problem. More likely, it would be Ulrich.

She realized that if her mother had aided her, by providing the book from Charlemagne's grave, she'd surely given Christl something, too. Her mother had been the one who insisted that she speak to Cotton Malone. That was why she and Wilkerson had used the woman and led him to the abbey. Her mother cared little for Wilkerson. Another weak soul, she called him. And child, we have no time for weakness. But her mother was nearing eighty and Dorothea was in the prime of her life. Handsome, adventurous men, like Wilkerson, were good for many things.

Like last night.

She stepped to the bed and roused him.

He awoke and smiled.

It's nearly noon, she said.

I was tired.

We need to leave.

He noticed the contents of the boxes scattered across the floor. Where are we going?

Hopefully, to get a step ahead of Christl.

Chapter THIRTY-TWO

WASHINGTON, DC

8:10 AM

RAMSEY WAS ENERGIZED . HE'D CHECKED MEDIA WEBSITES FOR Jacksonville, Florida, and was pleased to see a report on a fatal fire at the home of Zachary Alexander, a retired navy commander. Nothing unusual about the blaze, and preliminary reports had targeted the cause as an electrical short due to faulty wiring. Charlie Smith had clearly crafted two masterpieces yesterday. He hoped today would be equally productive.

The morning was mid-Atlantic crisp and sunny. He was strolling the Mall, near the Smithsonian, the sparkling white Capitol looming clear on its hilly perch. He loved a frosty winter's day. With Christmas only thirteen days away and Congress not in session, the business of government had slowed, everything waiting for a new year and the start of another legislative season.

A slow news time, which probably explained the extensive coverage the death of Admiral Sylvian was receiving in the media. Daniels' recent criticisms of the Joint Chiefs had made the untimely death more timely. Ramsey had listened to the president's comments with amusement, knowing that nobody in Congress would be headstrong about changing that command. True, the Joint Chiefs ordered little, but when they spoke people listened. Which probably explained, more than anything else, the White House's resentment. Particularly Daniels, a lame duck, wobbling toward the climax of his political career.

Ahead, he spotted a short, dapper man dressed in a slim-fitting cashmere overcoat, his pale, cherubic face reddened from the cold. Clean-shaven, he had bristly dark hair that lay close to his scalp. He stomped the pavement in an apparent effort to rid himself of a chill. Ramsey glanced at his watch and estimated the envoy had been waiting for at least fifteen minutes.

He approached.

Admiral, do you know how friggin' cold it is out here?

Twenty-eight degrees.

And you couldn't be on time?

If I needed to be on time, then I would have been.

I'm not in the mood for rank pulling. Not in the mood at all.

Interesting how being the chief of staff for a US senator bestowed such courage. He wondered if Aatos Kane had told this acolyte to be an ass or was this improvisation?

I'm here because the senator said you had something to say.

Does he still want to be president? All of Ramsey's previous contacts with Kane had been shuttled through this emissary.

He does. And he will be.

Spoken with the confidence of a staffer firmly grasping the coattails of his boss.

Every shark has its remora.

He smiled. That it does.

What do you want, Admiral?

He resented the younger man's haughtiness. Time to put this man in his place. I want you to shut up and listen.

He noticed the eyes studying him with the calculated gaze of a political pro.

When Kane was in trouble, he asked for help, and I gave him what he wanted. No questions, it was done.

He waited a moment before speaking again as three men rushed by.

I might add, he said, that I violated a multitude of laws, which I'm sure you could not care less about.

His listener was not a man of age, wisdom, or wealth. But he was ambitious and understood the value of political favors.

The senator is aware of what you did, Admiral. Though, as you know, we were not aware of the full extent of what you planned.

Nor did you reject the benefits afterward.

Granted. What is it you want now?

I want Kane to tell the president that I'm to be named to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. In Sylvian's vacancy.

And you think the president can't tell the senator no?

Not without severe consequences.

The agitated face staring back at him lightened with a fleeting smile. It's not going to happen.

Had he heard right?

The senator assumed that's what you wanted. Sylvian's corpse probably wasn't even cold when you made that call earlier. The younger man hesitated. Which makes us wonder.

He spied mistrust in the man's observant eyes.

After all, as you say, you performed us a service once, with no residuals.

He ignored the implications and asked, What do you mean, not going to happen ?

You're too controversial. Too much of a lightning rod. Too many in the navy either don't like you or don't trust you. Endorsing your appointment would have fallout. And as I mentioned, we're making a White House run, starting early next year.

He realized that the classic Washington two-step had started. A famous dance that politicians like Aatos Kane were experts at performing. Every pundit agreed. Kane's White House run seemed plausible. In fact, he was his party's leading contender, with little competition. Ramsey knew the senator had been quietly amassing pledges that now totaled in the millions. Kane was a personable, engaging man, comfortable in front of a crowd and a camera. He was neither a true conservative nor a liberal, but a mixture that the press loved to tag middle of the road. He'd been married to the same woman for thirty years with not a hint of scandal. He was almost too perfect. Except, of course, for that favor Kane had once needed.

Fine way to thank your friends, Ramsey said.

Who said you were our friend?

A weariness creased his forehead that he quickly masked. He should have seen it coming. Arrogance. The most common illness afflicting longtime politicians. No, you're right. That was presumptuous of me.

The man's face lost its impassive look. Get this straight, Admiral. Senator Kane thanks you for what you did. We would have preferred another way, but he still appreciates it. He repaid you, though, when he blocked the navy from transferring you. Not once, but twice. We sent a full blitz into the backfield on that one. That's what you wanted and that's what we gave you. You don't own Aatos Kane. Not now. Not ever. What you're asking is impossible. In less than sixty days the senator will be an announced candidate for the White House. You're an admiral who should retire. Do it. Enjoy a well-earned rest.

He submerged any defensiveness and simply nodded in understanding.

And one more thing. The senator resented your call this morning demanding that we meet. He sent me to tell you that this relationship is over. No more visits, no more calls. Now I have to go.

Of course. Don't let me keep you.

Look, Admiral, I know you're pissed. I would be, too. But you're not going on the Joint Chiefs. Retire. Become a Fox TV analyst and tell the world what a bunch of idiots we are. Enjoy life.

He said nothing and simply watched as the prick paraded off, surely proud of his stellar performance, eager to report how he'd put the head of naval intelligence in his place.

He walked to an empty bench and sat.

Cold seeped from its slats through his overcoat.

Senator Aatos Kane had no idea. Neither did his chief of staff.

But they were both about to find out.

Chapter THIRTY-THREE

MUNICH, GERMANY

1:00 PM

WILKERSON HAD SLEPT WELL, SATISFIED BOTH WITH HOW HE'D handled himself at the lodge and with Dorothea afterward. Having access to money, few responsibilities, and a beautiful woman weren't bad substitutes for not being an admiral.

Provided, of course, that he could stay alive.

In preparation for this assignment, he'd back-checked the Oberhauser family thoroughly. Assets in the billions, and not old money ancient money that had lasted through centuries of political upheavals. Opportunists? Surely. Their family crest seemed to explain it all. A dog clutching a rat in its mouth, encased inside a crested cauldron. What myriad contradictions. Much like the family itself. But how else could they have survived?

Time, though, had taken a toll.

Dorothea and her sister were all the Oberhausers left.

Both beautiful, high-strung creatures. Nearing fifty. Identical in appearance, though each tried hard to distinguish herself. Dorothea had pursued business degrees and actively worked with her mother in the family concerns. She'd married in her early twenties and birthed a son, but he was killed five years ago, a week after his twentieth birthday, in a car accident. All reports indicated that she changed after that. Hardened. Became enslaved to deep anxieties and unpredictable moods. To shoot a man with a shotgun, as she'd done last night, then make love afterward with such an unfettered intensity, proved that dichotomy.

Business had never interested Christl, nor had marriage or children. He'd met her only once, at a social function Dorothea and her husband had attended when he'd first made contact. She was unassuming. An academician, like her father and grandfather, studying oddities, mulling the endless possibilities of legend and myth. Both of her master's theses had been on obscure connections between mythical ancient civilizations like Atlantis, he'd found after reading both and developing cultures. Fantasy, all of it. But the male Oberhausers had been fascinated by such ridiculousness, and Christl seemed to have inherited their curiosity. Her childbearing days were over, so he wondered what would happen after Isabel Oberhauser died. Two women who did not like each other neither one of whom could leave blood heirs would inherit it all.

A fascinating scenario with endless possibilities.

He was outside, in the cold, not far from their hotel, a magnificent establishment that would satisfy the whims of any king. Dorothea had called from the car last night to speak with the concierge, and a suite had been waiting when they arrived.

The sunny Marienplatz, which he now strolled, was crowded with tourists. A strange hush hung over the square, broken only by the scuff of soles and a murmur of voices. Within sight were department stores, cafTs, the central market, a royal palace, and churches. The massive rathaus dominated one perimeter, its animated fatade streaked with the darkened effects of centuries. He purposefully avoided the museum quarter and headed for one of several bakeries that were enjoying a brisk business. He was hungry and some chocolate pastries would be lovely.

Booths decorated with fragrant pine boughs dotted the square, part of the city's Christmas market, which stretched out of sight down the old town's busy main thoroughfare. He'd heard about the millions who came each year for the festivities but doubted he and Dorothea would have time to attend. She was on a mission. He was, too, which made him think of work. He needed to check with Berlin and maintain a presence for his employees' sake. So he found his cell phone and dialed.

Captain Wilkerson, his yeoman said, after answering. I was told to direct any call from you directly to Commander Bishop.

Before he could ask why, the voice of his second in command came on the line. Captain, I have to ask where you are.

His radar went to full alert. Never did Bryan Bishop call him Captain, unless other people were listening.

What's the problem? he asked.

Sir, this call is being recorded. You've been relieved of all duties and declared a level-three security risk. Our orders are to locate and detain you.

He grabbed hold of his emotions. Who gave those orders?

Office of the Director. Issued by Captain Hovey, signed by Admiral Ramsey.

He'd actually been the one who recommended Bishop's promotion to commander. He was a compliant officer who followed orders with unquestioned zeal. Great then, bad now.

Am I being sought? he asked, and then a realization slammed into him and he clicked off the phone before hearing the answer.

He stared at the unit. They came with a built-in GPS locator for emergency tracking. Damn. That's how they'd found him last night. He hadn't been thinking. Of course, he'd had no idea before the attack that he was a target. After, he'd been rattled and Ramsey the SOB had rocked him to sleep, buying time to dispatch another team.

His daddy had been right. Can't trust a one of them.

Suddenly a city of 120 square miles, with millions of inhabitants, transformed from a refuge into a prison. He glanced around at the people, all huddled in thick coats, darting in every direction.

And no longer wanted any pastries.

RAMSEY LEFT THE NATIONAL MALL AND DROVE INTO CENTRAL Washington, near Dupont Circle. Normally he used Charlie Smith for his special tasks, but that was currently impossible. Luckily he kept a variety of assets all capable in their own way on a call list. He had a reputation of paying well and promptly, which helped when he needed things done quickly.

He wasn't the only admiral jockeying for David Sylvian's post. He knew of at least five others who were surely on the phone to congressmen as soon as they'd heard Sylvian had died. Paying the proper respects and burying the man would come in a few days but Sylvian's successor would be chosen in the next few hours, as slots that high on the military food chain did not stay vacant long.

He should have known Aatos Kane would be a problem. The senator had been around a long time. He knew the lay of the land. But experience came with liabilities. Men like Kane counted on the fact that opponents did not possess either the nerve or the means to exploit those liabilities.

He suffered from neither deficiency.

He grabbed a curbside parking spot just as another car was leaving. At least something had gone right today. He clicked seventy-five cents into the meter and walked through the chill until he found Capitol Maps.

An interesting store.

Nothing but maps from every corner of the globe, including an impressive travel and guidebook collection. He wasn't in the market for cartography today. Instead he needed to speak to the owner.

He entered and spotted her talking to a customer.

She caught a glimpse, but nothing in her countenance revealed any recognition. He assumed the considerable fees he'd paid her through the years for contract services had helped finance the store, but they'd never discussed the matter. One of his rules. Assets were tools, treated the same as a hammer, saw, or screwdriver. Use them. Then put them away. Most of the people he employed understood that rule. Those who didn't were never called again.

The store owner finished with her customer and casually strolled over. Looking for a particular map? We have a large assortment.

He glanced around. That you do. Which is good, because I need a lot of help today.

WILKERSON REALIZED THAT HE WAS BEING FOLLOWED. AMAN AND a woman lurked a hundred feet behind him, most likely alerted by his contact with Berlin. They'd made no move to close, which meant one of two things. They wanted Dorothea and were waiting for him to lead them to her, or he was being herded.

Neither prospect was pleasant.

He elbowed a path through a thick knot of midday Munich shoppers and had no idea how many other adversaries were waiting ahead. A level-three security risk? That meant they would contain with whatever force necessary including deadly. Worse, they'd had hours to prepare. He knew the Oberhauser operation was important more personal than professional and Ramsey had the conscience of an executioner. If threatened, he'd react. At the moment he certainly appeared to be threatened.

He set a sharp pace.

He should call Dorothea and warn her, but he'd resented her intrusion last night during his call with Ramsey. This was his problem and he could handle things. At least she hadn't berated him about being wrong when it came to Ramsey. Instead she'd taken him to a luxurious Munich hotel and pleased them both. Calling her might also require him to explain how they'd been located, and that was a conversation he'd like to avoid.

Fifty yards ahead, the close huddle of the pedestrian-only old town ended at a busy boulevard packed with cars and lined with yellow-fronted buildings that projected a Mediterranean feel.

He glanced back.

The two following closed the gap.

He stared left and right, then across the blare and bustle. A taxi stand lined the boulevard's far curb, drivers propped outside, waiting for fares. Six lanes of chaos lay in between, the noise level as high as his heart rate. Cars began to congeal as traffic signals to his left cycled from green.

A bus approached from his right, in the middle lane.

The inside and outside lanes were slowing.

Anxiety gave way to fear. He had no choice. Ramsey wanted him dead. And since he knew what the two pursuers behind him had to offer, he'd take his chances with the boulevard.

He darted out as a driver apparently spotted him and braked.

He timed the next move perfectly and leaped across the middle lane just as the traffic signals changed to red and the bus began its stop for the intersection. He leaped the outside lane, which was luckily car-free for a few moments, and found the grassy median.

The bus ground to a halt and blocked any line of sight from the sidewalk. Honks and screeches, like geese and owls quarreling, signaled opportunity. He'd earned a precious few seconds, so he decided not to waste a single one. He raced across the three lanes ahead of him, empty thanks to the red light, and jumped into the lead taxi, ordering the driver in German, Go.

The man hopped behind the wheel and Wilkerson crouched as the taxi sped away.

He glanced out the window.

The green light appeared and a phalanx of traffic rushed ahead. The man and woman wove their way across the cleared half of the boulevard, now prevented from a complete crossing thanks to the spate of vehicles speeding toward him.

His two pursuers searched all around.

He smiled.

Where to? the driver asked in German.

He decided to make another smart play. Just a few blocks, then stop.

When the taxi wheeled to the curb, he tossed the driver ten euros and hopped out. He'd spotted a sign for the U-Bahn and hustled down the stairs, bought a ticket, and rushed to the platform.

The underground train arrived and he stepped into a nearly full car. He sat and activated his cell phone, which came with a special feature. He entered a numeric code and the screen readDELETE ALL DATA ? He pressed yes. Like his second wife, who never heard him the first time, the phone askedARE YOU SURE ? He pressed yes again.

The memory was now wiped clean.

He bent over, ostensibly to stretch his socks, and laid the phone beneath the seat.

The train eased into the next station.

He exited. But the phone kept going.

That should keep Ramsey busy.

He made his way up from the station, pleased with his escape. He needed to contact Dorothea, but that had to be done carefully. If he was being watched, so was she.

He stepped out into the sunny afternoon and found his bearings. He was not far from the river, near the Deutsches Museum. Another busy street and crowded sidewalk spread out before him.

A man suddenly stopped beside him.

Bitte,Herr Wilkerson, he said in German. To that car, just down there, at the curb.

He froze.

The man wore a long wool coat and kept both hands in his pockets.

I don't want to, the stranger said, but I will shoot you here, if need be.

His eyes drifted to the man's coat pocket.

A sick feeling invaded his stomach. No way Ramsey's people had followed him. But he'd been so intent on them, he'd neglect to notice anyone else. You're not from Berlin, are you? he asked.

Nein. I'm something altogether different.

Chapter THIRTY-FOUR

AACHEN, GERMANY

1:20 PM

MALONE ADMIRED ONE OF THE LAST REMNANTS OF THE CAROLINGIAN empire, known then as the Church of Our Lady and now as Charlemagne's chapel. The building seemed to be formed in three distinct sections. A gothic tower, which appeared to stand apart. A round but angular midsection, connected to the tower by a covered bridge, topped with an unusual pleated dome. And a tall, elongated building that seemed all roof and stained-glass windows. The conglomeration had been erected from the latter part of the eighth to the fifteenth centuries, and it was amazing that it had survived, particularly the last hundred years when, Malone knew, Aachen had been mercilessly bombed.

The chapel stood on the low end of a city slope, once connected to the palace proper by a low line of wooden structures that housed a solarium, a military garrison, law courts, and quarters for the king and his family.

Charlemagne's palatinate.

Only a courtyard, the chapel, and the foundations of the palace upon which fourteenth-century builders erected Aachen's town hall remained. The rest had disappeared centuries ago.

They entered the chapel through the west doors, the ancient portal cloistered from the street. Three steps led down into a baroque-style porch, its walls whitewashed and unadorned.

Those steps are significant, Christl said. Ground levels outside have risen since Charlemagne's time.

He recalled Dorothea's tale about Otto III. Beneath here is where they found Charlemagne's tomb? And the book Dorothea has?

She nodded. Some say Otto III dug through this flooring and found the king sitting upright, his fingers pointing to the Gospel of Mark. For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?

He caught her cynicism.

Others say Emperor Barbarossa found the grave site here in 1165, and the body was lying in a marble coffin. That Roman sarcophagus is on display in the treasury next door. Barbarossa supposedly substituted a gilded chest, which is now she pointed ahead into the chapel there, in the choir.

Beyond the altar, he spotted a golden reliquary displayed within an illuminated glass enclosure. They left the porch and stepped into the chapel. A circular passage spanned to the left and right, but he seemed drawn to the center of the inner octagon. Light, like mist, filtered down from windows high in the dome.

A hexadecagon wrapping an octagon, he said.

Eight massive pillars folded into each other to form double pillars that held the high dome aloft. Rounded arches rose skyward to the upper galleries where slender columns, marble bridges, and latticework grilles connected everything.

For three centuries after its completion, this was the tallest building north of the Alps, Christl told him. Stone had been used in the south to construct temples, arenas, palaces, and later churches, but this type of building was unknown among Germanic tribes. This was the first attempt, outside the Mediterranean, to build a stone vault.

He stared up at the towering gallery.

Little of what you see is from Charlemagne's time, she said. The structure itself, obviously. The thirty-six marble columns, there, on the second level. Some of them are original carted from Italy, stolen by Napoleon, but eventually returned. The eight bronze lattices between the arches are also original. Everything else came later. Carolingians whitewashed their churches and painted the insides. Later, Christians added elegance. This remains, though, the only church in Germany built on orders of Charlemagne still standing.

He had to tilt his back to spy up into the dome. Its golden mosaics depicted twenty-four elders, clad in white, standing before the throne, proffering golden crowns in adoration of the Lamb. From Revelation, if he wasn't mistaken. More mosaics decorated the drum beneath the dome. Mary, John the Baptist, Christ, Archangel Michael, Gabriel, even Charlemagne himself.

Suspended by a wrought-iron chain, whose links thickened as they rose, was a massive, wheel-shaped candelabra replete with intricate goldsmithing.

Emperor Barbarossa presented that chandelier in the twelfth century, she said, after his coronation. It's symbolic of the heavenly Jerusalem, the city of lights, which will come down from heaven like a victor's crown, as promised to every Christian.

Revelation again. He thought about another cathedral, St. Mark's in Venice. This place has a Byzantine look and feel.

It reflects Charlemagne's love of Byzantine richness, as opposed to Roman austerity.

Who designed it?

She shrugged. No one knows. A Master Odo is mentioned in some of the texts, but nothing is known about him except that he apparently knew of the architecture from the south. Einhard definitely participated, as did Charlemagne himself.

The interior didn't impress with its size, instead the illusion was more intimate, the eyes compelled to swing upward, toward heaven.

Admission to the chapel was free, but several paying group tours wandered about, their guides explaining the highlights. Their tail from the train station had wandered inside, too, using one of the crowds for cover. Then, apparently satisfied there was but one entrance, he had drifted back outside.

Malone had guessed right. His rental car had been tagged. How else could the gunman have found them last night? They certainly weren't followed. Today they'd driven the same car from Reichshoffen to Garmisch to catch the train, where he'd first spotted Hatchet Face.

No better way to know if someone was following than to lead him.

Christl pointed up to the second-story gallery. That area was reserved exclusively for the monarch. Thirty Holy Roman Emperors were crowned here. Having sat on the throne and followed in the footsteps of Charlemagne, they symbolically gained possession of the em stevepire. No emperor was deemed legitimate until he ascended the throne that sits up there.

Chairs filled the octagon for worshipers and, as he saw, tourists. He sat off to the side and asked, Okay, why are we here?

Mathematics and architecture were part of Einhard's love.

He caught what she'd not voiced. Taught to him by the Holy Ones?

Look at this place. Quite an accomplishment for the ninth century. A lot of firsts here. That stone vault overhead? It was revolutionary. Whoever designed and built it knew what they were doing.

But what does this chapel have to do with Einhard's will?

In the will Einhard wrote that a comprehension of the wisdom of heaven begins in the new Jerusalem.

This is the new Jerusalem?

That's exactly how Charlemagne referred to this chapel.

He recalled the rest. Revelations there will be clear once the secret of that wondrous place is deciphered. Clarify this pursuit by applying the angel's perfection to the lord's sanctification. But only those who appreciate the throne of Solomon and Roman frivolity shall find their way to heaven.

You have a good memory.

If you only knew.

Riddles are not my strong point, and I've had a hard time with this one.

Who says I'm good with them?

Mother says you have quite a reputation.

It's good to know that I've passed Mama's test. Like I told her and you, she seems to have chosen sides.

She's trying to get Dorothea and me to work together. At some point we may have to. But I plan to avoid that as long as possible.

In the abbey, when you saw that cabinet had been vandalized, you thought Dorothea was the culprit, didn't you?

She knew Father kept his papers there. But I never told her how the cabinet opened. She was never interested, until lately. She clearly didn't want me to have the documents.

But she wanted you to have me?

That is puzzling.

Maybe she thought I'd be useless?

I can't imagine why.

Flattery? You'll try anything.

She smiled.

He wanted to know, Why would Dorothea steal the documents at the abbey and leave the originals of at least one of them in the castle?

Dorothea rarely ventured beneath Reichshoffen. She knows little of what's down there.

So who killed the woman from the cable car?

Her face hardened. Dorothea.

Why?

She shrugged. You must know that my sister has little or no conscience.

You two are the strangest twins I've ever come across.

Though we were born at the same time, that doesn't make us the same. We always maintained a distance from each other that we both enjoy.

So what happens when you two inherit it all?

I think Mother hopes this quest will end our differences.

He caught her reservations. Not going to happen?

We both promised that we'd try.

You each have a strange way of trying.

He stared around at the chapel. A few feet away, within the outer polygon, stood the main altar.

Christl noticed his interest. The panel in front is said to have been made from gold that Otto III found in Charlemagne's tomb.

I already know what you're going to say. But nobody knows for sure.

Her explanations, so far, had been specific, but that didn't mean they were right. He checked his watch and stood. We need to eat something.

She gave him a puzzled look. Shouldn't we deal with this first?

If I knew how, I would.

Before entering the chapel, they'd detoured to the gift shop and learned that the interior stayed open until sevenPM , the last tour starting at six. He'd also noticed an assortment of guidebooks and historical materials, some in English, most in German. Luckily, he was reasonably fluent.

We need to make a stop, then find a place to eat.

The Marktplatz is not far away.

He motioned toward the main doors. Lead the way.

Chapter THIRTY-FIVE

CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA

11:00 AM

CHARLIE SMITH WORE STONE-WASHED JEANS, A DARK KNIT SHIRT , and steel-toed boots, all bought a few hours ago from a Wal-Mart. He imagined himself one of the Duke boys, in Hazzard County, just after climbing out the driver's-side window of the General Lee. Light traffic on the two-lane highway north from Charlotte had allowed a leisurely pace, and now he stood shivering among trees and stared at the house, maybe twelve hundred square feet under one roof.

He knew its history.

Herbert Rowland had bought the property in his thirties, made payments until his forties, then built the cabin in his fifties. Two weeks after retiring from the navy, Rowland and his wife packed a moving van and drove the twenty miles north from Charlotte. They'd spent the past ten years living quietly beside the lake.

On the flight north from Jacksonville, Smith had studied the file. Rowland possessed two genuine medical concerns. The first was a long-standing diabetic condition. Type 1, insulin-dependent. Controllable, provided he maintained daily insulin injections. The second was a love of alcohol, whiskey being Rowland's preference. A bit of a connoisseur, he spent a portion of his monthly navy retirement check on premium blends at a high-priced Charlotte liquor store. He always drank at home, at night, he and his wife together.

His notes from last year suggested a death consistent with diabetes. But devising a method to accomplish that result, while at the same time not raising any suspicion, had taken thought.

The front door opened and Herbert Rowland strolled out into bright sunshine. The older man walked straight to a dirty Ford Tundra and drove away. A second vehicle belonging to Rowland's wife was nowhere to be seen. Smith waited in the thickets ten minutes, then decided to risk it.

He walked to the front door and knocked.

No answer.

Again.

It took less than a minute to pick the lock. He knew there was no alarm system. Rowland liked to tell people he considered it a waste of money.

He carefully opened the door, stepped inside, and found the answering machine. He checked the saved messages. The sixth one, from Rowland's wife, dated and timed a few hours ago, pleased him. She was at her sister's and had called to check on him, ending by noting that she'd be home the day after tomorrow.

His plan immediately changed.

Two days alone was an excellent opportunity.

He passed a rack of hunting rifles. Rowland was an avid woodsman. He checked a couple of the shotguns and rifles. He liked to hunt, too, only his sport walked upright on two legs.

He entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Lining the door shelf, exactly where the file indicated, stood four vials of insulin. With gloved fingers he examined each. All full, plastic seals intact, save for the one currently in use.

He carried the vial to the sink, then removed an empty syringe from his pocket. Puncturing the rubber seal with the needle, he worked the plunger, siphoned out the medicine, then expelled the liquid down the drain. He repeated the process two more times until the vial was empty. From another pocket he found a bottle of saline. He filled the syringe and injected the contents, repeating the process until the vial was once again three-quarters full.

He rinsed the sink and replaced the tampered vial in the refrigerator. Eight hours from now, when Herbert Rowland injected himself, he'd notice little. But alcohol and diabetes didn't mix. Excessive alcohol and untreated diabetes were absolutely fatal. Within a few hours Rowland should be in shock, and by morning he'd be dead.

All Smith would have to do was maintain a vigil.

He heard a motor outside and rushed to the window.

A man and woman emerged from a Chrysler compact.

DOROTHEA WAS CONCERNED. WILKERSON HAD BEEN GONE A LONG time. He'd said he would find a bakery and bring back some sweets, but that had been nearly two hours ago.

The room phone rang and startled her. No one knew she was here except

She lifted the receiver.

Dorothea, Wilkerson said. Listen to me. I was followed, but managed to lose them.

How did they find us?

I have no idea, but I made it back to the hotel and spotted men out front. Don't use your cell phone. It can be monitored. We do that all the time.

You sure you lost them?

I used the U-Bahn. It's you they're keying on now since they think you'll lead them to me.

Her mind plotted. Wait a few hours, then take the underground to the Hauptbahnhof. Wait near the tourist office. I'll be there at six.

How are you going to leave the hotel? he asked.

As much business as my family does here, the concierge should be able to handle whatever I ask.

STEPHANIE STEPPED FROM HER CAR AND EDWIN DAVIS EMERGED from the passenger side. They'd driven from Atlanta to Charlotte, about 240 miles, all interstate highway, the trip a little under three hours. Davis had learned the physical address for Herbert Rowland, LCDR, retired, from navy records and Google had provided directions.

The house sat north of Charlotte, beside Eagles Lake, which, from its size and irregular shape, seemed man-made. The shoreline was steep, forested, and rocky. Few homesites existed. Rowland's wood-sided, hip-roofed house was nestled a quarter mile from the road, among bare hardwoods and green poplars, with a great view.

Stephanie was unsure about all of this and had voiced her concerns during the trip, suggesting that law enforcement should be involved.

But Davis had balked.

This is still a bad idea, she said to him.

Stephanie, if I went to the FBI, or the local sheriff, and told them what I suspected, they'd say I was nuts. And who the hell knows? Maybe I am.

Zachary Alexander dying last night isn't a fantasy.

But it isn't a provable murder, either.

They'd heard from the Secret Service in Jacksonville. No evidence of foul play had been detected.

She noticed no cars parked at the house. Doesn't seem like anyone's home.

Davis slammed the car door. One way to find out.

She followed him onto the porch, where he banged on the front door. No answer. He knocked again. After another few moments of silence, Davis tested the knob.

It opened.

Edwin she started, but he'd already entered.

She waited on the porch. This is a felony.

He turned. Then stay out there in the cold. I'm not asking you to break the law.

She knew clear thinking was needed, so she walked inside. I have to be out of my mind to be in the middle of this.

He smiled. Malone told me he said the same thing to you last year in France.

She had no idea. Really? What else did Cotton say?

He did not reply, just headed off to investigate. The dTcor made her think of Pottery Barn. Ladder-back chairs, sectional sofa, jute rugs across bleached hardwood floors. Everything was neat and orderly. Framed pictures dominated the walls and tables. Rowland was obviously a sportsman. Specimens dotted the walls, mixed with more portraits of what appeared to be children and grandchildren. A sectional sofa faced a wooden deck. Across the lake, the far shore was visible. The house seemed to sit in the elbow of a cove.

Davis remained intent on looking around, opening drawers and cabinets.

What are you doing? she asked.

He drifted into the kitchen. Just trying to get a sense of things.

She heard him open the refrigerator.

You learn a lot about someone by studying their refrigerator, he said.

Really? What did you learn in mine?

He'd ventured into hers earlier, before they'd left, to get something to drink.

That you don't cook. It reminded me of college. Not much there.

She grinned. And what have you learned here?

He pointed. Herbert Rowland is a diabetic.

She noticed vials with Rowland's name on them markedINSULIN . That -'t all that hard.

And he likes chilled whiskey. Maker's Mark. Good stuff.

Three bottles stood on the top shelf.

You a drinker? she asked.

He closed the refrigerator door. I like a shot of sixty-year-old Macallan every once in a while.

We need to leave, she said.

This is for Rowland's own good. Somebody is going to kill him, in a way he least expects. We need to check the other rooms.

She still wasn't convinced and walked back into the den. Three doors led off from the great room. Beneath one, she noticed something. Light shifting, shadows, as if someone had just walked past on the other side.

Alarm bells rang in her brain.

She reached beneath her coat and withdrew a Magellan Billetuissue Beretta.

Davis caught sight of the gun. You came armed?

She held up her index finger, signaling for quiet, and pointed to the door.

Company,she mouthed.

CHARLIE SMITH HAD BEEN TRYING TO LISTEN . THE TWO INTRUDERS had boldly entered the house, forcing him into the bedroom, where he'd shut the door and stood close. When the man had said he planned on checking the remaining rooms, Smith knew he was in trouble. He'd brought no gun. He only toted one when absolutely necessary, and since he'd flown from Virginia to Florida, bringing one along had been impossible. Besides, guns were a poor way to inconspicuously kill somebody. Lots of attention, evidence, and questions.

No one should be here. The file made clear that Herbert Rowland volunteered at the local library every Wednesday until fivePM . He wasn't due back for hours. His wife, of course, was gone. He'd caught snippets of the conversation, which seemed more personal than professional, the woman clearly on edge. But then he'd heard. You came armed?

He needed to leave, but there was nowhere to go. Four windows lined the bedroom's exterior walls, but they could provide no ready escape.

A bathroom and two closets opened off the bedroom.

He needed to do something fast.

STEPHANIE OPENED THE BEDROOM DOOR . THE MASTER SUITE BED was made, everything tidy, like the rest of the house. A bathroom door hung open, and daylight from the four windows cast a bright glow across the room's Berber carpet. Outside, trees jostled by the breeze shifted and black shapes danced across the floor.

No ghosts? Davis said.

She pointed down. False alarm.

Then something caught her eye.

One closet was equipped with pocket doors and appeared to be Mrs. Rowland's, women's clothes hung in a haphazard fashion. A second closet was smaller with a hinged paneled door. She could not see inside, as it sat at a right angle to her, in a short hall that led to the bath. The door hung open, its inner side visible from where she stood. A plastic hanger on the inside knob rocked, ever so slightly, from side to side.

Not much, but enough.

What is it? Davis asked.

You're right, she said. Nothing here. Just nerves from committing a burglary.

She could see that Davis had not noticed or if he had, he was keeping the realization close.

Can we get out of here now? she asked.

Sure. I think we've seen enough.

WILKERSON WAS TERRIFIED .

He'd been forced at gunpoint to make the call to Dorothea, the man from the sidewalk telling him exactly what to say. The barrel of a 9mm automatic had been nestled close to his left temple, and he'd been warned that any variation in the script would result in the trigger being pulled.

But he'd done exactly as instructed.

He'd then been driven across Munich in the rear of a Mercedes coupe, his hands cuffed behind his back, his kidnapper at the wheel. They'd lingered awhile, his captor leaving him alone in the car while he spoke on a cell phone outside.

Several hours had passed.

Dorothea should be at the train station soon, but they were nowhere near its location. In fact, they were driving away from the city center, heading south, out of the city, toward Garmisch and the Alps, sixty miles away.

How about one thing? he asked the driver.

The man said nothing.

Since you're not going to tell me who you work for, how about your name? That a secret, too?

He'd been taught that to engage your captors was the first step in learning about them. The Mercedes veered right, onto a ramp for the autobahn and sped ahead, merging onto the superhighway.

My name is Ulrich Henn, the man finally said.

Chapter THIRTY-SIX

AACHEN, 5:00 PM

MALONE FOUND HIMSELF ENJOYING HIS MEAL . HE AND CHRISTL had walked back to the triangular-shaped Marktplatz and found a restaurant that faced the town's rathaus. On the way they'd stopped in the chapel's gift shop and bought half a dozen guidebooks. Their route had led them through a maze of snug, cobbled lanes lined with bourgeois town houses that created a medieval atmosphere, though most were probably only fifty or so years old given that Aachen had been heavily bombed in the 1940s. The afternoon's cold had not deterred shopping. People crowded the trendy shops preparing for Christmas.

Hatchet Face was still following and had entered another cafT 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 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.

Chapter THIRTY-SEVEN