The Charlemagne Pursuit

by Steve Berry

  He stared down at the table. Two chairs remained out of place. Another toppled back and crashed to the floor, sending a thud resounding through the hall.

  A gunshot volley, from across the upper gallery, rained down and obliterated the tabletop. Luckily the thick wood handled the assault. Malone fired across the gallery to where the muzzle flashes had appeared. Rounds now came his way, ricocheting off stone behind him.

  His eyes searched the darkness, trying to see where the assailant might be. He’d tried to divert attention by calling out, but Christl Falk, whether intentionally or not, had ruined that effort. Behind him, more black niches lined the wall.

  Ahead was equally bleak. He caught movement on the opposite side—a form, heading his way. He clung to the

  darkness, crouched and crept forward, turning left to traverse the hall’s short side.

  What was happening? This man had come for him.

  Christl suddenly appeared below in the center of the hall, standing in the weak light.

  Malone did not reveal his presence. Instead, he settled into the shadows, hugged one of the arches, and peered around its edge.

  “Show yourself,” Christl called out.

  No reply.

  Malone abandoned his position and moved faster, trying to double back behind the gunman.

  “Look, I’m walking away. If you want to stop me, you know what you’re going to have to do.”

  “Not smart,” a man said.

  Malone stopped at another corner. Ahead, halfway down the gallery, the attacker stood, facing away. Malone cast a quick glance downward and saw that Christl was still there.

  A cold excitement steadied his nerve.

  The shadow before him raised his weapon.

  “Where is he?” the man asked her. But she did not reply. “Malone, show yourself or she’s dead.”

  Malone crept forward, gun level, and said, “I’m right here.”

  The man’s gun stayed angled downward. “I can still kill Frau Lindauer,” he calmly said.

  Malone caught the error but made clear, “I’ll shoot you long before you can pull that trigger.”

  The man seemed to consider his dilemma and turned slowly toward Malone. Then his movements accelerated as he

  tried to swing the assault rifle around, pulling the trigger at the same time. Bullets pinged through the hall. Malone was about to fire when another retort banged off the walls.

  The man’s head wrenched back as he stopped firing.

  His body flew away from the railing.

  Legs teetered, off balance.

  A cry, quick and startled, strangled into silence as the gunman collapsed to the floor.

  Malone lowered his weapon.

  The top of the man’s skull was gone.

  He approached the railing.

  Below, on one side of Christl Falk stood a tall, thin man with a rifle pointed upward. On the other side was an elderly woman who said to him, “We appreciate the distraction, Herr Malone.”

  “It wasn’t necessary to shoot him.”

  The old woman motioned and the other man lowered his rifle.

  “I thought it was,” she said.

  TWENTY-SIX

  MALONE DESCENDED TO GROUND LEVEL.THE OTHER MAN ANDolder woman still stood with Christl Falk.

  “This is Ulrich Henn,” Christl said. “He works for our family.”

  “And what does he do?”

  “He looks after this castle,” the old woman said. “He’s the head chamberlain.”

  “And who are you?” he asked.

  Her eyebrows raised in apparent amusement and she threw him a smile with the teeth of a jack-o’-lantern. She was unnaturally gaunt, almost birdlike in appearance, with burnished gray-gold hair. Forked veins lined her spindly arms and liver spots dotted her wrists.

  “I am Isabel Oberhauser.”

  Though welcome seemed on her lips, the eyes were more uncertain.

  “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

  “I am the matriarch of this family.”

  He pointed at Ulrich Henn. “You and your employee just killed a man.”

  “Who entered my house illegally with a weapon, trying to kill you and my daughter.”

  “And you just happened to have a rifle handy, along with a person who can blow the top of a man’s head off from fifty feet away in a dimly lit hall.”

  “Ulrich is an excellent shot.”

  Henn said nothing. He apparently knew his place.

  “I didn’t know they were here,” Christl said. “I was under the impression Mother was away. But when I saw her and Ulrich enter the hall, I motioned for him to stand ready while I drew the gunman’s attention.”

  “Stupid move.”

  “It seemed to work.”

  And it also told him something about this woman. Facing down guns took guts. But he couldn’t decide if she was smart, brave, or an idiot. “I don’t know too many academicians who’d do what you did.” He faced the older

  Oberhauser. “We needed that gunman alive. He knew my name.”

  “I noticed that, too.”

  “I need answers, not more puzzles, and what you did complicated an already screwed-up situation.”

  “Show him,” Isabel said to her daughter. “Afterward, Herr Malone, you and I can talk privately.”

  He followed Christl back to the main foyer, then upstairs into one of the bedchambers where, in a far corner, a colossal tile stove bearing the date 1651 stretched to the ceiling.

  “This was my father’s and grandfather’s room.”

  She entered an alcove where a decorative bench jutted below a mullioned window.

  “My ancestors, who originally built Reichshoffen in the thirteenth century, were fanatical about being trapped. So every room possessed at least two exits—this one no exception. In fact, it was afforded the utmost in security for the time.”

  She applied pressure to one of the mortar joints and a wall section opened, revealing a spiral staircase that wound down in a counterclockwise direction. When she flicked a switch a series of low-voltage lamps illuminated the darkness.

  He followed her inside. At the bottom of the staircase she flicked another switch.

  He noticed the air. Dry, warm, climate-controlled. The floor was gray slate framed by thin lines of black grout. The coarse stone walls, plastered and also painted gray, bore evidence that they had been hacked from bedrock centuries ago.

  The chamber cut a twisting path, one room dissolving into another, forming a backdrop for some unusual objects. There were German flags, Nazi banners, even a replica of an SS altar, fully prepared for the child-naming ceremonies he knew were common in the 1930s. Countless figurines, a toy soldier set laid out on a colorful map of early-twentieth-century Europe, Nazi helmets, swords, daggers, uniforms, caps, windcheater jackets, pistols, rifles, gorgets, bandoliers, rings, jewelry, gauntlets, and photographs.

  “This is what my grandfather spent his time, after the war, accumulating.”

  “It’s like a Nazi museum.”

  “Hitler’s discrediting profoundly hurt him. He served the bastard well, but never could understand that he meant nothing to the Socialists. For six years, up until the war ended, he tried every way he could to gain back favor. Until he lost his mind utterly in the 1950s, he collected all this.”

  “That doesn’t explain why the family kept it.”

  “My father respected his father. But we rarely come down here.”

  She led him to a glass-topped case. Inside, she pointed to a silver ring with ss runes depicted in a way he’d never seen before. Cursive, almost italicized. “They’re in the true Germanic form, as on ancient Norse shields. Fitting, because these rings were only worn by the Ahnenerbe.” She drew his attention to another item in the case. “The badge with the Odel rune and short-armed swastika was also only for the Ahnenerbe. Grandfather designed them. The stickpin is quite special—a representation of the sacred Irminsul, or Life Tree of the Saxons. It supposedly stood atop the Roc
ks of the Sun at Detmold and was destroyed by Charlemagne himself, which started the long wars between Saxons and Franks.”

  “You speak of these relics almost with reverence.”

  “I do?” She sounded perplexed.

  “As if they mean something to you.”

  She shrugged. “They’re simply reminders of the past. My grandfather started the Ahnenerbe for purely cultural reasons, but it evolved into something altogether different. Its Institute for Military Scientific Research conducted unthinkable experiments on concentration camp prisoners. Vacuum chambers, hypothermia, blood coagulation testing. Horrible things. Its Applied Nature Studies created a Jewish bone collection from men and women whom they murdered, then macerated. Eventually several of the Ahnenerbe were hanged for war crimes. Many more went to prison. It became an abomination.”

  He watched her carefully.

  “None of which my grandfather participated in,” she said, reading his thoughts. “All of that happened after he was fired and publicly shamed.” She paused. “Long after he sentenced himself to this place and the abbey, where he toiled alone.”

  Hanging beside the Ahnenerbe banner was a tapestry that depicted the same Life Tree from the stickpin. Writing at the bottom caught his attention.NO PEOPLE LIVE LONGER THAN THE DOCUMENTATION OF THEIR CULTURE .

  She saw his interest. “My grandfather believed that statement.”

  “And do you?”

  She nodded. “I do.”

  He still did not understand why the Oberhauser family had preserved this collection in a climate-controlled room, with not a speck of dust anywhere. But he could understand one of her stated reasons. He respected his father, too. Though the man had been absent for much of Malone’s childhood, he remembered the times they’d spent together throwing a baseball, swimming, or doing chores around the house. He’d remained angry for years after his father died at being denied what his friends, with both parents, took for granted. His mother never let him forget his father but, as he grew older, he came to realize that her memory might have been jaded. Being a navy wife was tough duty—just as being a Magellan Billet wife had eventually proven too much for his ex.

  Christl led the way through the exhibits. Each turn revealed more of Hermann Oberhauser’s passion. She stopped at another gaily painted wooden cabinet, similar to the one at the abbey. Inside one of its drawers she removed a single page encased within a heavy plastic sheath.

  “This is Einhard’s original last will and testament, found by Grandfather. A copy was at the abbey.”

  He studied what appeared to be vellum, the tight script in Latin, the ink faded to a pale gray.

  “On the reverse is a German translation,” she said. “The final paragraph is the important one.”

  In life my oath was given to the most pious Lord Charles, emperor and augustus, which required me to withhold all mention of Tartarus. A complete account of what I know was long ago reverently placed with Lord Charles on the day he died. If that sacred tomb ever be opened, those pages shall not be divided, nor partitioned, but know that Lord Charles would have them bestowed upon the holy emperor then holding the crown. To read those truths would reveal much and, after further considerations of piety and prudence, especially since witnessing the utter disregard Lord Louis has shown for his father’s great efforts, I have conditioned the ability to read those words on knowing two other truths.

  The first I do hereby bestow to my son, who is directed to safeguard it for his son, and his son thereafter for eternity.

  Guard it dearly, for it is written in the language of the church and easily comprehended, but its message is not complete.

  The second, which would bestow a full comprehension of the wisdom of heaven waiting with Lord Charles, begins in the new Jerusalem. 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. Be warned, neither I, nor the Holy Ones, have patience with ignorance.

  “It’s what I told you about,” she said. “Karl der Große Verfolgung. The Charlemagne pursuit. It’s what we have to decipher. It’s what Otto III, and every Holy Roman Emperor after him failed to discover. Solving this puzzle will lead us to what our fathers were searching for in Antarctica.”

  He shook his head. “You said your grandfather went and brought stuff back. Obviously, he solved it. Didn’t he leave the answer?”

  “He left no records on how or what he learned. As I’ve said, he went senile and was useless after that.”

  “And why has it now become so important?”

  She hesitated before answering him. “Neither Grandfather nor Father cared much for business. The world was what interested them. Unfortunately, Grandfather lived at a time when controversial ideas were banned. So he was forced to labor alone. Father was a hopeless dreamer who did not possess the ability to accomplish anything.”

  “He apparently managed to get to Antarctica aboard an American submarine.”

  “Which begs a question.”

  “Why was the American government interested enough to put him on that sub?”

  He knew part of that could be explained by the times. America in the 1950s, ’60s, and ’70s pursued a number of unconventional investigations. Things like the paranormal, ESP, mind control, UFOs. Every angle was explored in the hope of finding an edge over the Soviets. Had this been another of those wild attempts?

  “I was hoping,” she said, “that you could help explain that.”

  But he was still waiting for an answer to his inquiry. So he asked again, “Why is any of this important now?”

  “It could matter a great deal. In fact, it could literally change our world.”

  Behind Christl, her mother appeared, the old woman walking slowly toward where they stood, her careful steps making not a sound. “Leave us,” she ordered her daughter.

  Christl left, without a word.

  Malone stood, holding Einhard’s will.

  Isabel straightened. “You and I have things to discuss.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA

  1:20 AM

  CHARLIESMITH WAITED ACROSS THE STREET.ONE LAST APPOINTMENTbefore his work night ended.

  Commander Zachary Alexander, retired USN, had spent the last thirty years doing nothing but complaining. His heart.

  Spleen. Liver. Bones. Not a body part had escaped scrutiny. Twelve years ago he became convinced he needed an appendectomy until a doctor reminded him that his appendix had been removed ten years before. A pack-a-day smoker in years past, he was sure three years ago that he’d contracted lung cancer, but test after test revealed nothing. Recently, prostate cancer gestated into another of his obsessive afflictions, and he’d spent weeks trying to convince specialists he was afflicted.

  Tonight, though, Zachary Alexander’s medical worries would all end.

  Deciding how best to accomplish that task had been difficult. Since virtually every part of Alexander’s body had been thoroughly tested, a medical death would almost certainly be suspicious. Violence was out of the question, as that always attracted attention. But the file on Alexander indicated

  Lives alone. Tired of incessant complaining, wife divorced him years ago. Children rarely visit, gets on their nerves too.

  Never has a woman over. Considers sex nasty and infectious. Professes to have quit smoking years ago, but most nights, and usually in bed, likes a cigar. A heavy imported brand, specially ordered through a tobacco shop in Jacksonville (address at end). Smokes at least one a day.

  That tidbit had been enough to spark Smith’s imagination and, coupled with a few other morsels from the file, he’d finally devised the means for Zachary Alexander’s death.

  Smith had flown from Washington, DC, to Jacksonville on a late-evening shuttle, then followed the directions in the file and parked about a quarter mile beyond Alexander’s h
ome. He’d slipped on a denim vest, grabbed a canvas bag from the rental’s backseat, and backtracked up the road.

  Only a few houses lined the quiet street.

  Alexander was noted in the file as a heavy sleeper and chronic snorer, a notation that told Smith a rumble could be heard even outside this house.

  He entered the front yard.

  A rackety central air compressor roared from one side of the house, warming the interior. The night was chilly, but noticeably less cold than in Virginia.