Dorothea had always despised the way her mother dismissed grief. She never recalled a tear shed when her father disappeared. Nothing seemed to faze her. Yet Dorothea could not shake Wilkerson's lifeless gaze. True, he was an opportunist. But she'd thought their relationship might actually have developed into something more substantial.
"Why did you kill him?" she asked her mother.
"He would have brought immeasurable trouble to this family. And the Americans would have killed him eventually, anyway."
"You're the one who involved the Americans. You wanted that file on the submarine. You had me arrange that through Wilkerson. You wanted me to get the file, make contact with Malone, and discourage him away. You wanted me to steal Father's papers and the stones from the monastery. I did exactly as you requested."
"And did I tell you to kill the woman? No. That was your lover's idea. Poisoned cigarettes. Ridiculous. And what of our lodge? Now in ruin. Two men dead inside. Men whom the Americans dispatched. Which one did you kill, Dorothea?"
"It had to be done."
Her mother paced the marble floor. "Always so practical. It had to be done. That's right, because of your American. If he'd continued to be involved there would have been devastating consequences. This did not concern him, so I ended his participation." Her mother stepped close, a few inches away. "They sent him to spy on us. I simply encouraged you to play off his weaknesses. But you went too far. I must say, though, I underestimated their interest in our family."
Dorothea pointed at Werner. "Why did you involve him?"
"You need assistance. He'll provide it."
"I need nothing from him." She paused. "Or from you, old woman."
Her mother's arm swept up and slapped Dorothea's face. "You will not address me in such a manner. Not now. Not ever."
She did not move, knowing that though she might be able to overcome her aged mother, Ulrich Henn would be another matter. She caressed her cheek from the inside with her tongue.
Her temple pulsed.
"I came here tonight," Isabel said, "to make things clear. Werner is now part of this. I have involved him. This quest is of my choosing. If you do not want to accept these rules, then it can end now and your sister will be given control of everything."
Rapier eyes appraised her. She saw that her mother had not tossed an idle threat.
"You want this, Dorothea. I know you do. You're much more like me. I've watched. You've worked hard in the family businesses, you're good at what you do. You shot that man at the lodge. You have courage, which your sister sometimes lacks. She has vision, which you sometimes ignore. A shame that the best of you both couldn't be merged into one person. Somehow, inside me long ago, everything was scrambled and, sadly, each of you has suffered."
Dorothea stared at Werner.
She might not love him any longer but, dammit, sometimes she needed him in ways that only those who'd outlived their children could understand. Theirs was a kinship bound by grief. The numbing agony of Georg's death had erected barriers they both had learned to respect. And yet, while her marriage faltered, her life outside of it prospered. Her mother was right. Business was her passion. Ambition is a powerful drug, dulling everything, including caring.
Werner clasped his arms behind him and stood straight, like a warrior. "Perhaps, before we die, we should enjoy what life we have left."
"I've never known you to have a death wish. You're quite healthy and could live many years."
"No, Dorothea. I can breathe for many years. Living is an entirely different matter."
"What is it you want, Werner?"
He lowered his head and stepped close to one of the darkened windows. "Dorothea, we're at a crossroads. The culmination of your entire life could perhaps occur in the next few days."
"Could? Such confidence."
The corners of his lips turned down. "I meant no disrespect. Though we disagree on many matters, I'm not your enemy."
"Who is, Werner?"
His eyes hardened like iron. "Actually, you have no need for them. You are your own."
MALONE STEPPED DOWN FROM THE PULPIT. "REVELATION IS THE final book of the New Testament, where John describes his vision of a new heaven, a new earth, a new reality." He motioned into the octagon."That building symbolized this vision. They will be His people and He will live among them. That's what Revelation says. Charlemagne built this and lived here, among his people. Two things, though, were critical. The length, height, and breadth must be the same, and the walls should measure one hundred forty-four cubits. Twelve times twelve."
"You're quite good at this," she said.
"Eight was also an important number. The world was created in six days, and God rested on the seventh. The eighth day, when everything was completed, represented Jesus, his resurrection, the start of the glorious crowning work of completion. That's why there's an octagon encircled by a sixteen-sided polygon. Then the designers of this chapel went a step farther.
"Clarify this pursuit by applying the angel's perfection to the lord's sanctification.That's what Einhard said. Revelation is about angels and what they did in forming the 'new Jerusalem.' Twelve gates, twelve angels, twelve tribes of the children of Israel, twelve foundations, twelve apostles, twelve thousand furlongs, twelve precious stones, twelve gates were twelve pearls." He paused. "The number twelve, deemed perfection by the angels."
He left the choir and reentered the octagon.
He pointed to the encircling mosaic band. "Can you translate it? My Latin is okay, but yours is better."
A thud echoed off the walls. Like something being forced.
Again.
He identified the direction. From one of the side chapels-St. Michael's. Where the other exit door was located.
He raced inside and rounded the empty pews toward the stout wooden door held shut with an iron latch. He heard a pop from its other side.
"They're forcing the door."
"Who's they?" Christl asked.
He found his gun.
"More trouble."
FORTY-THREE
DOROTHEA NEEDED TO LEAVE, BUT THERE WAS NO ESCAPE. SHE WAS at the mercy of her mother and her husband. Not to mention Ulrich. Henn had worked for the family for over a decade, ostensibly making sure Reichshoffen was maintained, but she'd always suspected that he provided a wider range of services. Now she knew. This man killed.
"Dorothea," her mother said. "Your husband wants to make amends. He wants you two to be as you were. Obviously, there are feelings still there or you would have divorced him long ago."
"I stayed for our son."
"Your son is dead."
"His memory isn't."
"No, it's not. But you're engaged in a battle for your heritage. Think. Take what is being offered."
She wanted to know, "Why do you care?"
Isabel shook her head. "Your sister seeks glory, vindication for our family. But that would involve much public scrutiny. You and I have never sought that. It is your duty to prevent that."
"How did that become my duty?"
Her mother seemed disgusted. "You are both so like your father. Is none of me inside you? Listen to me, child. The path you're taking is useless. I'm simply trying to help."
She resented the lack of confidence and the patronizing. "I learned a good deal from reading those Ahnenerbe periodicals and memos. Grandfather wrote an account of what they saw in Antarctica."
"Hermann was a dreamer, a man rooted in fantasy."
"He spoke of areas where the snow gave way to rock. Where liquid lakes existed where none should be. He talked about hollow mountains and ice caves."
"And what have we to show for all those fantasies? Tell me, Dorothea. Are we any closer to finding anything?"
"We have a dead man in the trunk of the car outside."
Her mother exhaled a long breath. "You are hopeless."
But her patience had worn thin, too. "You set the rules of this challenge. You wanted to know what happened to Father. You wanted Christl and me to work together. You gave us each part of the puzzle. If you're so damn smart, why are we doing all this?"