by Steve Berry
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Werner seemed to restrain a surge of annoyance. Perhaps he hadn’t contemplated that reaction. But his lips relaxed into a reassuring smile that actually frightened her. “Then you shall lose your mother’s challenge with your dear sister. Does that not matter?”
She’d had no idea he was aware of what was happening. She’d told him nothing. Clearly, though, her husband was well informed.
Finally, she asked, “Where are we going?”
“To see our son.”
STEPHANIE WATCHED AS EDWINDAVIS DROVE OFF. SHE THENswitched her phone to silent, buttoned her
coat, and plunged into the woods. Old-growth pines and bare hardwoods, many vined with mistletoe, stretched
overhead. Winter had only minimally thinned the underbrush. She advanced the hundred yards back toward the house slowly, a heavy layer of pine needles silencing her steps.
She’d seen the hanger moving. No doubt. But was it a mistake by her, or by the person she’d sensed inside?
She repeatedly told her agents to trust their instincts. Nothing worked better than common sense. Cotton Malone had been a master of that. She wondered what he was doing right now. He hadn’t called back concerning the information on Zachary Alexander or the rest of Holden ’s command staff.
Had he found trouble, too?
The house appeared, its form broken by the many trees that stood in between. She crouched behind one of the trunks.
Everyone, no matter how good they may be, eventually screwed up. The trick was being there when it happened. If Davis was to be believed, Zachary Alexander and David Sylvian had been murdered by someone expertly able to mask those deaths. And though he hadn’t voiced his reservations, she’d detected them when Davis told her how Millicent had died.
Her heart stopped.
Davis was playing a hunch, too.
The hanger.
It had moved.
And she’d wisely not revealed what she’d seen in the bedroom, deciding to see if Herbert Rowland was, in fact, next.
The door to the house opened and a short, thin man wearing jeans and boots stepped out.
He hesitated, then his darkened form trotted away, disappearing into the woods. Her heart raced. Son of a bitch.
What had he done in there?
She found her phone and dialed Davis’s number, which was answered after one ring.
“You were right,” she told him.
“About what?”
“Like you said with Langford Ramsey. Everything. Absolutely everything.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
AACHEN, 6:15 PM
MALONE FOLLOWED THE TOUR GROUP BACK INTO THE CENTRALoctagon of Charlemagne’s chapel. Inside
was fifty degrees warmer than outdoors, and he was grateful to be out of the cold. The tour guide spoke English. About twenty people had bought tickets, Hatchet Face not among them. For some reason their shadow had decided to wait outside. Perhaps the close confines had advised caution. The lack of a crowd may have also played into his decision.
The chairs beneath the dome were empty, only the tour group and a dozen or so other visitors loitering about.
A flash strobed the walls as someone snapped a picture. One of the attendants hustled toward the woman with the camera.
“There’s a fee,” Christl whispered, “for taking pictures.”
He watched as the visitor forked over a few euros and the man provided her a wristband.
“Now she’s legal?” he asked.
Christl grinned. “It takes money to maintain this place.”
He listened as the guide explained about the chapel, most of the information a regurgitation of what he’d read in the guidebooks. He’d wanted to take the tour because only paid groups were allowed in certain parts, upstairs particularly, where the imperial throne was located.
They wandered with the visitors into one of seven side chapels that jutted from the Carolingian core. This one was St.
Michael’s—recently renovated, the guide explained. Wooden pews faced a marble altar. Several of the group paused to light candles. Malone noticed a door in what he determined to be the west wall and recalled that it should be the other exit he’d discovered while reading the guidebooks. The heavy wooden slab hung closed. He casually wandered through the dim interior while the guide droned on about the history. At the door, he paused and quickly tested the latch.
Locked.
“What are you doing?” Christl asked.
“Solving your problem.”
They followed the tour, heading past the main altar toward the gothic choir, another area only open to paying groups.
He stopped within the octagon and studied a mosaic inscription that encircled above the lower arches. Black Latin letters on a gold background. Christl carried the plastic shopping bag that held the guidebooks. He quickly found the one he recalled, a thin pamphlet appropriately titled A Small Guide to Aachen Cathedral, and noted that the Latin in the printed text matched the mosaic.
CUM LAPIDES VIVI PACIS CONPAGE LIGANTUR INQUE PARES NUMEROS OMNIA CONVENIUNT
CLARET OPUS DOMINI TOTAM QUI CONSTRUIT AULAM EFFECTUSQUE PIIS DAT STUDIIS HOMINUM
QUORUM PERPETUI DECORIS STRUCTURA MANEBIT SI PERFECTA AUCTOR PROTEGAT ATQUE
REGAT SIC DEUS HOC TUTUM STABILI FUNDAMINE TEMPLUM QUOD KAROLUS PRINCEPS CONDIDIT
ESSE VELIT
Christl noticed his interest. “It’s the chapel’s consecration. Originally it was painted on the stone. The mosaics are a more recent addition.”
“But the words are the same as in Charlemagne’s day?” he asked. “In the same location?”
She nodded. “As far as anyone knows.”
He grinned. “The history of this place is like my marriage. Nobody seems to know anything.”
“And what happened to Frau Malone?”
He caught interest in her tone. “She decided that Herr Malone was a pain in the ass.”
“She might be right.”
“Believe me, Pam was always right about everything.” But he silently added a qualification that he’d only come to understand years after the divorce. Almost. When it came to their son she’d been wrong. But he wasn’t about to discuss Gary’s parentage with this stranger.
He studied the inscription again. The mosaics, the marble floor, and the marble-sheathed walls were all less than two hundred years old. In Charlemagne’s time, which was Einhard’s time, the stone surrounding him would have been coarse and painted. To presently do as Einhard instructed— begin in the new Jerusalem—could prove daunting since virtually nothing from twelve hundred years ago existed. But Hermann Oberhauser had solved the riddle. How else could he have found anything? So somewhere inside this structure lay the answer.
“We need to catch up,” he said.
They hurried after the tour group and arrived in the choir just as the guide was about to rehang a velvet rope that blocked entrance. Just beyond, the group had congregated around a gilded reliquary, its table-like pedestal elevated four feet off the floor and encased in glass.
“The Shrine of Charlemagne,” Christl whispered. “From the thirteenth century. Contains the emperor’s bones. Ninety-two. Four others are in the treasury, and the rest are gone.”
“They count them?”
“Inside that reliquary is a log that records every time, since 1215, when the lid was opened. Oh, yes, they count.”
She grasped his arm in a light embrace and led him to a spot before the shrine. The tour group had retreated behind the reliquary, the guide explaining how the choir had been consecrated in 1414. Christl pointed to a memorial plaque embedded in the floor. “Beneath here is where Otto III was buried. Supposedly fifteen other emperors are also buried around us.”
The guide was fielding questions about Charlemagne as the group snapped pictures. Malone studied the choir, a bold gothic design where stone walls seemed to dissolve into expanses of towering glass. He noted how the choir and the Carolingian co
re joined, the higher parts feeding into the octagon, neither building forfeiting any of its effectiveness.
He studied the upper reaches of the choir, focusing on the second-story gallery that encircled the central octagon. When he’d studied the schematics in the guidebooks he’d thought a vantage point here, in the choir, would offer a clear view of what he needed to see.
And he was right,
Everything on the second level seemed connected.
So far, so good.
The group was led back toward the chapel’s main entrance where they climbed what the guide called the emperor’s stairway, a circular route that wound into the upper gallery, every stone tread worn down into a drooping curve. The guide held an iron gate open and explained to everyone that only Holy Roman Emperors had been allowed upstairs.
The stairway led to a spacious upper gallery that overlooked the open octagon. The guide drew everyone’s attention to a crude hodgepodge of stone fashioned into steps, a bier, a chair, and an altar that jutted from the rear of the raised platform. The strange-looking edifice was encircled by a decorative wrought-iron chain that kept visitors at bay.
“This is Charlemagne’s throne,” the guide said. “It’s here on the upper level and elevated like this to be similar to thrones in Byzantine courts. And like those, it sits on the axis of the church, opposite the main altar, facing east.”
Malone listened as the guide described how four slabs of Parian marble had been fitted together with simple brass clamps to form the imperial chair. The six stone risers leading up were cut from an ancient Roman column.
“Six were chosen,” the guide said, “to correspond with the throne of Solomon, as detailed in the Old Testament.
Solomon was the first to have a temple built, the first to establish a reign of peace, and the first to sit on a throne. All similar to what Charlemagne accomplished in northern Europe.”
Part of what Einhard wrote flashed through Malone’s mind. But only those who appreciate the throne of Solomon and Roman frivolity shall find their way to heaven.
“No one knows for sure when this throne was installed,” the guide was saying. “Some say it was from Charlemagne’s time. Others argue it came later, in the tenth century, with Otto I.”
“It’s so plain,” one the tourists said. “Almost ugly.”
“From the thickness of the four marble pieces used to form the chair, which, as you can see, vary, it’s clear they were floor stones. Definitely Roman. They must have been salvaged from somewhere special. Apparently they were so
important that their appearance didn’t matter. On this simple marble chair, with a wooden seat, the Holy Roman Emperor would be crowned, then receive homage from his princes.”
She pointed beneath the throne at a small passageway that passed from one side to the other.
“Pilgrims, with backs bent, would creep through under the throne, paying their own homage. For centuries, this place was revered.”
She led the group to the other side.
“Now look here.” The woman pointed. “See the etchings.”
This was what he’d come for. Pictures had been included in the guidebooks, along with various explanations, but he wanted to see for himself.
Faint lines were visible in the rough marble surface. A square enclosing another square, enclosing still another. Halfway along the sides of the largest, a line jutted inward, bisecting the second form and stopping on the line for the inner square. Not all of the lines had survived, but enough for him to mentally form the completed image.
“This is proof,” the guide said, “that the marble slabs were originally Roman flooring. This is the board used to play Nine Men’s Morris, a combination of checkers, chess, and backgammon. It was a simple game that Romans loved.
They would etch the squares into a stone and play away. The game was also popular in Charlemagne’s time and is still played today.”
“What’s it doing on a royal throne?” someone asked.
The guide shook her head. “No one knows. But it is an interesting aspect, wouldn’t you say?”
He motioned for Christl to drift away. The guide droned on about the upper gallery and more cameras flashed. The throne seemed to be a great photo op and, thankfully, everyone sported their official wristbands.
He and Christl rounded one of the upper arches, now out of sight of the tour group.
His eyes searched the semi-darkness.
From the choir below he’d surmised that the throne sat in the west gallery. Somewhere up here, he’d hoped, would be a place to hide.
He led Christl into a dark recess in the outer wall and dissolved into its shadows. He motioned for quiet. They listened as the tour group departed the upper gallery and descended back to ground level.
He checked his watch.
7:00PM .
Closing time.
THIRTY-NINE
GARMISCH, 8:30 PM
DOROTHEA WAS IN A QUANDARY. HER HUSBAND APPARENTLY KNEWall about Sterling Wilkerson, which
surprised her. But he also knew of the quest with Christl, and that concerned her—along with the fact that Werner was apparently holding Wilkerson prisoner.
What in the world was happening?
They’d boarded a 6:40PM train out of Munich and headed south to Garmisch. During the eighty-minute trip Werner had said nothing, merely sat and calmly read a Munich newspaper. She’d always found it irritating how he devoured every word, even reading the obituaries and advertisements, commenting here and there on items that struck his interest.
She’d wanted to know what he meant by going to see their son but decided not to ask. For the first time in twenty-three years this man had shown a backbone, so she chose to keep quiet and see where things led.
They were now driving north on a darkened highway away from Garmisch, Ettal Monastery, and Reichshoffen. A car had been waiting outside the train station with the keys under the front mat. She now realized where they were headed, a location she’d avoided for the past three years.
She decided to give him no satisfaction. “Actually, Werner, I don’t think about you at all.”
“I’m not stupid, Dorothea,” Werner finally said. “You think I am, but I’m not.”
He ignored her jab and kept driving through the cold. Thankfully, no snow was falling. Traveling this road brought back memories she’d fought hard to erase. From five years ago. When Georg’s car careened off an unrailed highway in the Tyrolean Alps. He’d been there skiing and had called just before the accident to tell her that he’d be staying at the same inn he always frequented. They’d chatted for a few minutes—light, brief, and casual, mother and son, the kind of idle chitchat that occurred all the time.
But it was the last time she ever spoke to him.
The next time she saw her only child he was laid in a casket, dressed in a gray suit, ready for burial.
The Oberhauser family plot sat beside an ancient Bavarian church, a few kilometers west of Reichshoffen. After the funeral, the family had endowed a chapel there in Georg’s name, and for the first two years she’d gone regularly and lit a candle.
But for the past three years she’d stayed away.
Ahead, she spotted the church, its stained-glass windows faintly lit. Werner parked out front.
“Why do we have to be here?” she asked.
“Believe me, if it wasn’t important we wouldn’t be.”
He stepped out into the night. She followed him into the church. No one was inside, but the iron gate to Georg’s chapel hung open.
“You haven’t been in a while,” he said.
“That’s my business.”
“I’ve come quite often.”
That didn’t surprise her.
She approached the gate. A marble priedieu stood before a small altar. Above, St. George, perched atop a silvery horse, was carved into the stone. She rarely prayed and wondered if she was even a believer. Her father had been a devout atheist, her mother a nonpracticing Catholic. If there wa
s a God, she felt nothing but anger toward him for stripping her of the only person she’d ever loved unconditionally.
“I’ve had enough of this, Werner. What do you want? This is Georg’s grave. He deserves our respect. This is not the place to air our differences.”
“And do you respect him by disrespecting me?”
“I don’t concern myself with you, Werner. You have your life and I have mine.”
“It’s over, Dorothea.”