Steve Berry - The Charlemagne Pursuit

The records also detailed how, as the war progressed, the Ahnenerbe's role expanded. After Himmler ordered the Aryanization of the conquered Crimea, the Ahnenerbe was charged with replicating German forests and cultivating new crops for the Reich. The Ahnenerbe also supervised the relocation of ethnic Germans to the region, along with the deportation of thousands of Ukrainians.

But as the brain trust grew, more finances were needed.

So a foundation was created to receive donations.

Contributors included Deutsche Bank, BMW, and Daimler-Benz, which were thanked repeatedly in official correspondence. Always innovative, Himmler learned of reflector panels for bicycles that had been patented by a German machinist. He formed a joint company with the inventor and then ensured the passage of a law that required pedals on all bicycles to include the reflectors, which earned tens of thousands of Reichsmarks yearly for the Ahnenerbe.

So much effort had gone into fashioning so much fiction.

But amid the ridiculousness of finding lost Aryans, and the tragedies of participating in organized murder, her grandfather had actually stumbled onto a treasure.

She stared at the old book lying on the table.

Was it indeed from Charlemagne's grave?

Nothing in any of the materials she'd read talked about it, though from what her mother had told her, it had been found in 1935 among the archives of the Weimar Republic, discovered with a message penned by some unknown scribe that attested to its removal from the grave in Aachen on May 19, 1000, by Emperor Otto III. How it managed to survive until the twentieth century remained a mystery. What did it mean? Why was it so important?

Her sister, Christl, believed the answer lay in some mystical appeal.

And Ramsey had failed to alleviate her fears with his cryptic response.

You can't imagine.

But none of that could be the answer.

Or could it?

MALONE AND CHRISTL EXITED THE TRAIN STATION. MOIST, COLD air reminded him of a New England winter. Cabs lined the curb. People came and went in steady streams.

"Mother," Christl said, "wants me to succeed."

He couldn't decide if she was trying to convince him, or herself. "Your mother is manipulating you both."

She faced him. "Mr. Malone-"

"My name is Cotton."

She seemed to restrain a surge of annoyance. "As you reminded me last night. How did you acquire that odd name?"

"A story for later. You were about to berate me, before I knocked you off balance."

Her face relaxed into a smile. "You're a problem."

"From what your mother said, Dorothea thought so, too. But I've decided to take it as a compliment." He rubbed his gloved hands together and looked around. "We need to make a stop. Some long underwear would be great. This isn't that dry Bavarian air. How about you? Cold?"

"I grew up in this weather."

"I didn't. In Georgia, where I was born and raised, it's hot and humid nine months out of the year." He continued to survey his surroundings with a disinterested appearance, feigning discomfort. "I also need a change of clothes. I didn't pack for a long trip."

"There's a shopping district near the chapel."

"I assume, at some point, you'll explain about your mother and why we're here?"

She motioned for a taxi, which wheeled close.

She opened the door and climbed inside. He followed. She told the driver where they wanted to go.

"Ja," she said. "I'll explain."

As they left the station, Malone glanced out the rear window. The same man he'd noticed three hours earlier in the Garmisch station-tall, with a thin, hatchet-shaped face seamed with wrinkles-hailed a cab.

He carried no luggage and seemed intent on only one thing.

Following.

DOROTHEA HAD GAMBLED IN ACQUIRING THE AHNENERBE records. She'd taken a risk contacting Cotton Malone, but she'd proved to herself that he was of little use. Still, she was not certain that the route to success was more pragmatic. One thing seemed clear. Exposing her family to more ridicule was not an option. Occasionally, a researcher or historian contacted Reichshoffen wanting to inspect her grandfather's papers or talk to the family about the Ahnenerbe. Those requests were always refused, and for good reason.

The past should stay in the past.

She stared at the bed and a sleeping Sterling Wilkerson.

They'd driven north last night and taken a room in Munich. Her mother would know of the hunting lodge's destruction before the day ended. The body in the abbey had also surely been found. Either the monks or Henn would dispose of the problem. More likely, it would be Ulrich.

She realized that if her mother had aided her, by providing the book from Charlemagne's grave, she'd surely given Christl something, too. Her mother had been the one who insisted that she speak to Cotton Malone. That was why she and Wilkerson had used the woman and led him to the abbey. Her mother cared little for Wilkerson. "Another weak soul," she called him. "And child, we have no time for weakness." But her mother was nearing eighty and Dorothea was in the prime of her life. Handsome, adventurous men, like Wilkerson, were good for many things.

Like last night.

She stepped to the bed and roused him.

He awoke and smiled.

"It's nearly noon," she said.

"I was tired."

"We need to leave."

He noticed the contents of the boxes scattered across the floor. "Where are we going?"

"Hopefully, to get a step ahead of Christl."

RAMSEY WAS ENERGIZED. HE'D CHECKED MEDIA WEBSITES FOR Jacksonville, Florida, and was pleased to see a report on a fatal fire at the home of Zachary Alexander, a retired navy commander. Nothing unusual about the blaze, and preliminary reports had targeted the cause as an electrical short due to faulty wiring. Charlie Smith had clearly crafted two masterpieces yesterday. He hoped today would be equally productive.

The morning was mid-Atlantic crisp and sunny. He was strolling the Mall, near the Smithsonian, the sparkling white Capitol looming clear on its hilly perch. He loved a frosty winter's day. With Christmas only thirteen days away and Congress not in session, the business of government had slowed, everything waiting for a new year and the start of another legislative season.

A slow news time, which probably explained the extensive coverage the death of Admiral Sylvian was receiving in the media. Daniels' recent criticisms of the Joint Chiefs had made the untimely death more timely. Ramsey had listened to the president's comments with amusement, knowing that nobody in Congress would be headstrong about changing that command. True, the Joint Chiefs ordered little, but when they spoke people listened. Which probably explained, more than anything else, the White House's resentment. Particularly Daniels, a lame duck, wobbling toward the climax of his political career.

Ahead, he spotted a short, dapper man dressed in a slim-fitting cashmere overcoat, his pale, cherubic face reddened from the cold. Clean-shaven, he had bristly dark hair that lay close to his scalp. He stomped the pavement in an apparent effort to rid himself of a chill. Ramsey glanced at his watch and estimated the envoy had been waiting for at least fifteen minutes.

He approached.

"Admiral, do you know how friggin' cold it is out here?"

"Twenty-eight degrees."

"And you couldn't be on time?"

"If I needed to be on time, then I would have been."

"I'm not in the mood for rank pulling. Not in the mood at all."

Interesting how being the chief of staff for a US senator bestowed such courage. He wondered if Aatos Kane had told this acolyte to be an ass-or was this improvisation?

"I'm here because the senator said you had something to say."