"Let me tell you something. What your father told me long ago."
Charlemagne listened in awe as Einhard spoke. They were safe inside the palace chapel, in the room he maintained in the octagon's upper gallery. A summer's night had finally arrived, the exterior windows dark, the chapel equally quiet. Einhard had only yesterday returned from his long journey. The king admired him. A tiny man but, like the bee that makes fine honey or a busy ant, capable of great things. He called him Bezalell, from Exodus, a reference to his great workmanship. No one else would he have sent, and now he listened as Einhard told him of an arduous sea voyage to a place with walls of snow so luminous that sunlight cast their heights in shades of blue and jade green. On one a waterfall formed, the flow of it like silver, and Charlemagne was reminded of the jagged mountains in the south and east. Cold beyond believing, Einhard said, and one of his hands shivered with the memory. The wind blew with such force that not even the chapel surrounding them could have survived. Charlemagne doubted that claim, but did not challenge him. People here live in mud huts, Einhard said, no windows, only a hole in the roof to let smoke escape. Beds are used only by the privileged, clothes are unlined leather. There, it is so different. Houses are all of stone and furnished and heated. Clothes are thick and warm. No social classes, no wealth, no poverty. A land of equals where night comes without end and the water remains still as death, but so beautiful.
"That's what Einhard wrote," Isabel said. "Your father told me, as his father told him. It came from the book I gave you, the one from Charlemagne's grave. Hermann learned to read it. Now we must as well. That's why I set this challenge. I want you and your sister to find the answers we need."
But the book her mother had given her was penned in gibberish, full of fantastical images of unrecognizable things.
"Remember the words of Einhard's will," Isabel said. "A full comprehension of the wisdom of heaven waiting with Lord Charles begins in the new Jerusalem. Your sister is there, right now, in the new Jerusalem, many steps ahead of you."
She could not believe what she was hearing.
"This is not fiction, Dorothea. The past is not all fiction. The word heaven in the time of Charlemagne had a much different meaning than today. The Carolingians called it ha shemin. It meant 'highlands.' We're not talking about religion or God, we're talking about a people who existed far off, in a mountainous land of snow and ice and endless nights. A place Einhard visited. A place where your father died. Don't you want to know why?"
She did. Damn her, she did.
"Your husband is here to help," her mother said. "I eliminated a potential problem with Herr Wilkerson. Now this quest can continue without interference. I'll make sure the Americans find his body."
"It wasn't necessary to kill him," she declared again.
"Wasn't it? Yesterday a man burst into our home and tried to kill Herr Malone. He mistook your sister for you and tried to kill her. Thankfully, Ulrich prevented that from happening. The Americans have little regard for you, Dorothea."
Her eyes sought and found Henn, who nodded, signaling that what her mother had said was true.
"I knew then that something must be done. Since you are a creature of habit, I found you in Munich where I knew you'd be. Imagine, if I could find you so easily, how long would it have taken the Americans?"
She recalled Wilkerson's panic on the phone.
"I did what needed to be done. Now, child, you do the same."
But she was at a loss. "What am I to do? You said I was wasting my time with what I obtained."
Her mother shook her head. "I'm sure the knowledge you gained on the Ahnenerbe will be helpful. Are the materials in Munich?"
She nodded.
"I'll have Ulrich retrieve them. Your sister will shortly follow the correct path-it is imperative you join her. She must be tempered. Our family secrets must stay within the family."
"Where is Christl?" she asked again.
"Attempting what you were trying to do."
She waited.
"Trusting an American."
FORTY-FOUR
MALONE GRABBED CHRISTL AND FLED ST. MICHAEL'S CHAPEL, rushing back into the outer polygon. He turned for the porch and the main entrance.
More pops came from St. Michael's.
He found the main exit doors, which he hoped opened from the inside, and heard a noise. Somebody was forcing the outer latches. Apparently Hatchet Face didn't work alone.
"What's happening?" Christl asked.
"Our friends from last night found us. They've been following all day."
"And you're just now mentioning it?"
He fled the entranceway and reentered the octagon. His eyes searched the dim interior. "I figured you didn't want to be bothered with details."
"Details?"
He heard the door within St. Michael's give way. Behind him, the squeak of ancient hinges confirmed that the main doors had been flung open. He spied the stairway and they raced up the circular risers, all caution abandoned for speed.
He heard voices from below and motioned for quiet.
He needed Christl somewhere safe, so they sure as hell couldn't be parading around the upper gallery. The imperial throne sat before him. Beneath the crude marble chair was a dark opening where pilgrims once passed, he recalled the guide explaining-a hollow space beneath the bier and six stone steps. Below the altar that jutted from the rear was another opening, this one shielded by a wooden door with iron clasps. He motioned for her to crawl under the throne. She responded with a quizzical look. He wasn't in the mood to argue, so he jerked her toward the iron chain and pointed for her to crawl underneath.
Stay quiet, he mouthed.
Footsteps sounded from the winding staircase. They'd only have a few more seconds. She seemed to realize their predicament and relented, disappearing beneath the throne.
He needed to draw them away. Earlier, when he'd surveyed the upper gallery, he'd noticed a narrow ledge with a profile that ran above the lower arches, marking the dividing line between the floors, wide enough to stand on.
He crept past the throne, rounded the bier, and hopped the waist-high bronze grille. He balanced himself on the cornice, spine rigid against the upper pillars that supported the eight arches of the inner octagon. Thankfully, the pillars were two joined together, a couple of feet wide, which meant he had four feet of marble shielding him.
He heard rubber soles sweep onto the upper gallery's floor.
He began to rethink what he was doing, standing on a ledge ten inches wide, holding a gun with only five rounds, a good twenty-foot drop below. He risked one peek and saw two forms on the far side of the throne. One of the armed men advanced behind the bier, the other assumed a position on the far side-one probing, the other covering. The smart tactic showed training.
He pressed his head back against the marble and stared out across the octagon. Light from the windows behind the throne cast a glow on the shiny pillars of the far side, and the fuzzy shadow of the imperial chair was clearly visible. He watched as another shadow circled behind the throne, now on the side closest to where he stood.
He needed to draw the attacker closer.
Carefully, his left hand searched his jacket pocket and found a euro coin from the restaurant. He removed it, dropped his hand to one side, then gently tossed the coin in front of the bronze grille, finding the ledge ten feet away, where the next set of pillars rose. The coin tinkled, then dropped to the marble floor below, a ding echoing through the silence. He was hoping that the gunmen would realize he was the source and come forward, looking left, while he struck from the right.
But that didn't take into account what the other armed man would do.
The shadow on his side of the throne grew in size.