The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  “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 seven PM, 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.”

  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 F-150 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 décor 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 marked INSULIN. “That wasn’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 Billet–issue 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 five PM. 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.

  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 café 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 800 CE, and the building was consecrated on January 6, 805, by Pope Leo III, in the presence of the emperor.