by Steve Berry
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
Charlie Smith waited across the street. One last appointment before 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 home. 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.
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 1:35 AM.
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 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 neve
r 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.