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 ANDCHRISTL EXITED THE TRAIN STATION.MOIST, COLDair 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 THEAHNENERBErecords. 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.”
THIRTY-TWO
WASHINGTON, DC
8:10 AM
RAMSEY WAS ENERGIZED. HE’D CHECKED MEDIA WEBSITES FORJacksonville, 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?
&nbs
p; “I’m here because the senator said you had something to say.”
“Does he still want to be president?” All of Ramsey’s previous contacts with Kane had been shuttled through this emissary.
“He does. And he will be.”
“Spoken with the confidence of a staffer firmly grasping the coattails of his boss.”
“Every shark has its remora.”
He smiled. “That it does.”
“What do you want, Admiral?”
He resented the younger man’s haughtiness. Time to put this man in his place. “I want you to shut up and listen.”
He noticed the eyes studying him with the calculated gaze of a political pro.
“When Kane was in trouble, he asked for help, and I gave him what he wanted. No questions, it was done.”
He waited a moment before speaking again as three men rushed by.
“I might add,” he said, “that I violated a multitude of laws, which I’m sure you could not care less about.”
His listener was not a man of age, wisdom, or wealth. But he was ambitious and understood the value of political favors.
“The senator is aware of what you did, Admiral. Though, as you know, we were not aware of the full extent of what you planned.”
“Nor did you reject the benefits afterward.”
“Granted. What is it you want now?”
“I want Kane to tell the president that I’m to be named to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. In Sylvian’s vacancy.”
“And you think the president can’t tell the senator no?”
“Not without severe consequences.”
The agitated face staring back at him lightened with a fleeting smile. “It’s not going to happen.”
Had he heard right?
“The senator assumed that’s what you wanted. Sylvian’s corpse probably wasn’t even cold when you made that call earlier.” The younger man hesitated. “Which makes us wonder.”
He spied mistrust in the man’s observant eyes.
“After all, as you say, you performed us a service once, with no residuals.”
He ignored the implications and asked, “What do you mean, not going to happen ?”
“You’re too controversial. Too much of a lightning rod. Too many in the navy either don’t like you or don’t trust you.
Endorsing your appointment would have fallout. And as I mentioned, we’re making a White House run, starting early next year.”
He realized that the classic Washington two-step had started. A famous dance that politicians like Aatos Kane were experts at performing. Every pundit agreed. Kane’s White House run seemed plausible. In fact, he was his party’s leading contender, with little competition. Ramsey knew the senator had been quietly amassing pledges that now totaled in the millions. Kane was a personable, engaging man, comfortable in front of a crowd and a camera. He was neither a true conservative nor a liberal, but a mixture that the press loved to tag middle of the road. He’d been married to the same woman for thirty years with not a hint of scandal. He was almost too perfect. Except, of course, for that favor Kane had once needed.
“Fine way to thank your friends,” Ramsey said.
“Who said you were our friend?”
A weariness creased his forehead that he quickly masked. He should have seen it coming. Arrogance. The most
common illness afflicting longtime politicians. “No, you’re right. That was presumptuous of me.”
The man’s face lost its impassive look. “Get this straight, Admiral. Senator Kane thanks you for what you did. We would have preferred another way, but he still appreciates it. He repaid you, though, when he blocked the navy from transferring you. Not once, but twice. We sent a full blitz into the backfield on that one. That’s what you wanted and that’s what we gave you. You don’t own Aatos Kane. Not now. Not ever. What you’re asking is impossible. In less than sixty days the senator will be an announced candidate for the White House. You’re an admiral who should retire. Do it.
Enjoy a well-earned rest.”
He submerged any defensiveness and simply nodded in understanding.
“And one more thing. The senator resented your call this morning demanding that we meet. He sent me to tell you that this relationship is over. No more visits, no more calls. Now I have to go.”
“Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”
“Look, Admiral, I know you’re pissed. I would be, too. But you’re not going on the Joint Chiefs. Retire. Become a Fox TV analyst and tell the world what a bunch of idiots we are. Enjoy life.”
He said nothing and simply watched as the prick paraded off, surely proud of his stellar performance, eager to report how he’d put the head of naval intelligence in his place.
He walked to an empty bench and sat.
Cold seeped from its slats through his overcoat.
Senator Aatos Kane had no idea. Neither did his chief of staff.
But they were both about to find out.
THIRTY-THREE
MUNICH, GERMANY
1:00 PM
WILKERSON HAD SLEPT WELL, SATISFIED BOTH WITH HOW HE’Dhandled himself at the lodge and with
Dorothea afterward. Having access to money, few responsibilities, and a beautiful woman weren’t bad substitutes for not being an admiral.
Provided, of course, that he could stay alive.
In preparation for this assignment, he’d back-checked the Oberhauser family thoroughly. Assets in the billions, and not old money—ancient money that had lasted through centuries of political upheavals. Opportunists? Surely. Their family crest seemed to explain it all. A dog clutching a rat in its mouth, encased inside a crested cauldron. What myriad contradictions. Much like the family itself. But how else could they have survived?
Time, though, had taken a toll.
Dorothea and her sister were all the Oberhausers left.
Both beautiful, high-strung creatures. Nearing fifty. Identical in appearance, though each tried hard to distinguish herself. Dorothea had pursued business degrees and actively worked with her mother in the family concerns. She’d married in her early twenties and birthed a son, but he was killed five years ago, a week after his twentieth birthday, in a car accident. All reports indicated that she changed after that. Hardened. Became enslaved to deep anxieties and unpredictable moods. To shoot a man with a shotgun, as she’d done last night, then make love afterward with such an unfettered intensity, proved that dichotomy.
Business had never interested Christl, nor had marriage or children. He’d met her only once, at a social function Dorothea and her husband had attended when he’d first made contact. She was unassuming. An academician, like her father and grandfather, studying oddities, mulling the endless possibilities of legend and myth. Both of her master’s
theses had been on obscure connections between mythical ancient civilizations—like Atlantis, he’d found after reading both—and developing cultures. Fantasy, all of it. But the male Oberhausers had been fascinated by such ridiculousness, and Christl seemed to have inherited their curiosity. Her childbearing days were over, so he wondered what would happen after Isabel Oberhauser died. Two women who did not like each other—neither one of whom could leave blood heirs—would inherit it all.
A fascinating scenario with endless possibilities.
He was outside, in the cold, not far from their hotel, a magnificent establishment that would satisfy the whims of any king. Dorothea had called from the car last night to speak with the concierge, and a suite had been waiting when they arrived.
The sunny Marienplatz, which he now strolled, was crowded with tourists. A strange hush hung over the square, broken only by the scuff of soles and a murmur of voices. Within sight were department stores, cafés, the central market, a royal palace, and churches. The massive rathaus dominated one perimeter, its animated façade streaked with the darkened effects of centuries. He purposefully avoided the museum quarter and headed for one of several bakeries that were enjoying a brisk business. He was hun
gry and some chocolate pastries would be lovely.
Booths decorated with fragrant pine boughs dotted the square, part of the city’s Christmas market, which stretched out of sight down the old town’s busy main thoroughfare. He’d heard about the millions who came each year for the festivities but doubted he and Dorothea would have time to attend. She was on a mission. He was, too, which made him think of work. He needed to check with Berlin and maintain a presence for his employees’ sake. So he found his cell phone and dialed.