The Charlemagne Pursuit

by Steve Berry

  He carefully made his way to one of the side windows and hesitated long enough to hear Alexander’s rhythmic snoring.

  A fresh pair of latex gloves already encased his hands. He gingerly set down the canvas bag. From inside, he retrieved a small rubber hose with a hollow metal point. Carefully, he examined the window. Just as the file had indicated, silicon insulation sealed both sides from a half-assed repair.

  He pierced the seal with the metal tip, then removed a small pressure cylinder from the bag. The gas was a noxious mixture he’d long ago discovered that rendered deep unconsciousness without any residual effects to blood or lungs. He connected the hose to the cylinder’s exhaust port, opened the valve, and allowed the chemicals to silently invade the house.

  After ten minutes, the snoring subsided.

  He closed the valve, yanked the tubing free, and replaced everything in the bag. Though a small hole remained in the silicon, he wasn’t concerned. That minuscule piece of incriminating evidence would soon vanish.

  He walked toward the rear yard.

  Halfway, he dropped the canvas bag, yanked a wooden access door free from the cement block foundation, and

  wiggled underneath. An assortment of electrical wires spanned the subfloor. The file showed that Alexander, a confirmed hypochondriac, was also a miser. A few years ago he’d paid a neighbor a few dollars to add an outlet for the bedroom, along with providing a direct line from the breaker box to the outside air compressor.

  Nothing had been done to code.

  He found the junction box the file noted and unscrewed the cover plate. He then loosened the 220-volt line, breaking the connection and silencing the compressor. He hesitated a few anxious seconds, listening, on the off chance Alexander might have escaped the effects of the gas. But nothing disturbed the night.

  From another vest pocket he removed a knife and flayed the insulation protecting the electrical wires to and from the junction box. Whoever had performed the work had not encased the wires—their disintegration would be easily

  attributable to the lack of a protective conduit—so he was careful not to overdue the shearing.

  He replaced the knife.

  From another vest pocket he slipped out a plastic bag. Inside was a clay-like material and a ceramic connector. He fastened the connector to the screws inside the junction box. Before reestablishing the circuit, he packed the box with the dough, applying globs down the length of the exposed electrical wires. In its present form the material was harmless, but once heated to the requisite temperature for the requisite amount of time, it would vaporize and melt the remaining insulation. The heat necessary to cause that explosion would come from the ceramic connector. A few minutes would be needed for the current to warm the connector to the right temperature, but that was fine.

  He needed time to leave.

  He retightened the screws.

  The compressor sprang to life.

  Deliberately, he left the cover off the junction box, stuffing the faceplate into a vest pocket.

  He studied his work. Everything appeared in order. As with magicians’ flash paper, once the connector and clay ignited, both would become a scorching gas, producing an intense heat. They were ingenious materials, used by colleagues who specialized more in commercial arson than murder, though sometimes, like tonight, the two could be one and the same.

  He wormed out from under the house, replaced the door, and retrieved the canvas bag. He checked the ground and made sure nothing remained that might later betray his presence.

  He rounded back to the side window.

  Using his penlight, he peered through a dingy screen into the bedroom. An ashtray and cigar lay on the table next to Alexander’s bed. Perfect. If “electrical short” was not enough, “smoking in bed” could certainly be used to close out any arson investigator’s file.

  He retraced his steps to the road.

  The luminous dial of his watch read 1:35AM .

  He spent a lot of time out at night. A few years ago he’d bought Peterson’s guide to the planets and stars and learned about the heavens. It was good to have hobbies. Tonight, he recognized Jupiter shining brightly in the western sky.

  Five minutes passed.

  A flash spewed from under the house as the connector, then the clay explosive incinerated. He imagined the scene as the flayed wires joined the conspiracy, electrical current now feeding the fire. The wooden-frame house was well over thirty years old and, like kindling under dried logs, the bottom fire quickly spread. Within minutes the entire structure was engulfed in flames.

  Zachary Alexander, though, would never know what happened.

  His forced sleep would not be interrupted. He’d be asphyxiated long before flames charred his body.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  BAVARIA

  MALONE LISTENED TOISABELOBERHAUSER.

  “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.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  WASHINGTON, DC

  4:30 AM

  RAMSEY SLIPPED ON HIS BATHROBE. TIME FOR ANOTHER DAY.INfact, 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 loo
se 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.