“Lots of leaps in logic in that argument.”
“Are you always so skeptical?”
“I’ve found it’s healthy when my ass is on the line.”
“As part of my master’s thesis I studied medieval maps and learned of an interesting dichotomy. Land maps of the time were crude—Italy joined to Spain, England misshapen, mountains out of place, rivers inaccurately drawn. But nautical maps were a different story. They were called portolans—it means ‘port to port.’ And they were incredibly accurate.”
“And you think that the drafters of those had help.”
“I studied many portolans. The Dulcert Galway of 1339 shows Russia with great accuracy. Another Turkish map from 1559 shows the world from a northern projection, as if hovering over the North Pole. How was that possible? A map of Antarctica published in 1737 showed the continent divided into two islands, which we now know is true. A 1531 map I examined showed Antarctica without ice, with rivers, even mountains that we now know are buried beneath. None of that information was available when those maps were created. But they are remarkably accurate—within one half-degree of longitude in error. That’s incredible considering the drafters supposedly did not even know the concept.”
“But the Holy Ones knew about longitude?”
“To sail the world’s oceans they would have to understand stellar navigation or longitude and latitude. In my research I noticed similarities among the portolans. Too many to be mere coincidence. So if an oceangoing society existed long ago, one that conducted worldwide surveys centuries before the great geological and meteorological catastrophes that swept the world around ten thousand years before Christ, it’s logical that information was passed on, which survived and made its way into those maps.”
He was still skeptical but, after their quick tour of the chapel and thinking about Einhard’s will, he was beginning to reevaluate things.
He crawled to the door and peered beneath. Still quiet. He propped himself against the door.
“There’s something else,” she said.
He was listening.
“The prime meridian. Virtually every country that eventually sailed the seas developed one. There had to be a longitudinal starting point. Finally, in 1884, the major nations of the world met in Washington, DC, and chose a line through Greenwich as zero degree longitude. A world constant, and we’ve used it ever since. But the portolans tell a different story. Amazingly, they all seemed to use a point thirty-one degrees, eight minutes west as their zero line.”
He did not comprehend the significance of those coordinates, other than they were east of Greenwich, somewhere beyond Greece.
“That line runs straight through the Great Pyramid at Giza,” she said. “At that same 1884 conference in Washington, an argument was made to run the zero line through that point, but was rejected.”
He didn’t see the point.
“The portolans I found all utilized the concept of longitude. Don’t get me wrong, those ancient maps did not contain latitude and longitude lines like we know today. They used a simpler method, choosing a center point, then drawing a circle around it and dividing the circle. They would keep doing that outward, generating a crude form of measurement.
Each of those portolans I mentioned used the same center. A point in Egypt, near what’s now Cairo, where the Giza pyramid stands.”
A pile of coincidences, he had to admit.
“That longitude line through Giza runs south into Antarctica exactly where the Nazis explored in 1938, their
Neuschwabenland.” She paused. “Grandfather and Father both were aware of this. I was first introduced to these concepts from reading their notes.”
“I thought your grandfather was senile.”
“He left some historical notes. Not a lot. Father, too. I only wish they both would have spoken of this pursuit more.”
“This is nuts,” he said.
“How many scientific realities today started out the same way? It’s not nuts. It’s real. There’s something out there, waiting to be found.”
Which his father may have died searching for.
He glanced at his watch. “We can probably head downstairs. I need to check a few things.”
He came to one knee and pushed himself off the floor. But she stopped him, her hand on his trouser leg. He’d listened to her explanations and concluded that she was not a crackpot.
“I appreciate what you’re doing,” she said, keeping her voice hushed.
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You’re here.”
“As you made clear, what happened to my father is wrapped up in this.”
She leaned close and kissed him, lingering long enough for him to know that she was enjoying it.
“Do you always kiss on the first date?” he asked her.
“Only men I like.”
FORTY-TWO
BAVARIA
DOROTHEA STOOD IN SHOCK, STERLINGWILKERSON’S DEAD EYESstaring up at her.
“You killed him?” she asked her husband.
Werner shook his head. “Not me. But I was there when it happened.” He slammed the trunk shut. “I never knew your father, but I’m told he and I are much alike. We allow our wives to do as they please, provided we’re afforded the same
luxury.”
Her mind filled with a swarm of confusing thoughts. “How do you know anything of my father?”
“I told him,” a new voice said.
She whirled.
Her mother stood in the church doorway. Behind her, as always, loomed Ulrich Henn. Now she knew.
“Ulrich killed Sterling,” she said to the night.
Werner brushed by her. “Indeed. And I daresay he might kill us all, if we don’t behave.”
MALONE LED THE WAY OUT OF THEIR HIDING PLACE, BACK INTOthe octagon’s upper gallery. He paused at
the bronze railing—Carolingian, he recalled Christl noting, original to the time of Charlemagne—and gazed below. A handful of wall sconces burned as night-lights. Wind continued to wreak havoc against the outer walls, and the Christmas market seemed to be losing enthusiasm. He focused across the open space at the throne on the far side, backdropped by mullioned windows that splashed a luminous glow over the elevated chair. He studied the Latin mosaic that wrapped the octagon below. Einhard’s challenge wasn’t all that challenging.
Thank goodness for guidebooks and smart women.
He stared at Christl. “There’s a pulpit, right?”
She nodded. “In the choir. The ambo. Quite old. Eleventh century.” He smiled. “Always a history lesson.”
She shrugged. “It’s what I know.”
He circled the upper gallery, passed the throne, and headed back down the circular staircase. Interestingly, the iron gate was left open at night. At ground level he traversed the octagon and reentered the choir. A gilded copper pulpit dotted with unique ornamentations perched against the south wall, above an entrance to another of the side chapels. A short staircase led up. He hopped a velvet rope and climbed wooden runners. Luckily what he was looking for was there. A Bible.
He laid the book on the gilded lectern and opened to Revelation.chapter 21 .
Christl stood below and gazed up at him as he read out loud.
“And he carried me away in the spirit to a great and high mountain, and showed me that great city, the holy Jerusalem, descending out of heaven from God, which had a wall great and high, and twelve gates, and at the gates twelve angels, and names written thereon, which are the names of the twelve tribes of the children of Israel. And the wall of the city had twelve foundations, and in them the names of the twelve apostles of the Lamb. And he that talked with me had a golden reed to measure the city, and the gates thereof, and the wall thereof. And the city lieth foursquare, and the length is as large as the breadth, and he measured the city with the reed, twelve thousand furlongs. The length and the breadth and the height of it are equal. And he measured the wall thereof, a hundred and forty and four cubits, ac
cording to the measure of a man, that is, of the angel. And the foundations of the wall of the city were garnished with twelve precious stones. And the twelve gates were twelve pearls.
“Revelation is critical to this place. The chandelier Emperor Bar-barossa donated quotes from it. The mosaic in the dome is based on it. Charlemagne specifically called this his ‘new Jerusalem.’ And this connection is no secret—I read about it in all the guidebooks. One Carolingian foot equaled about one-third of a meter, which is just a bit more than today’s foot. The outer sixteen-sided polygon is thirty-six Carolingian feet in length. That translates to one hundred forty-four of today’s feet. The octagon’s outer perimeter is the same, thirty-six Carolingian feet, which is a hundred forty of today’s feet. The height is also precise. Originally eighty-four of today’s feet, without the helmet dome, which came centuries later. The entire chapel is a factor of seven and twelve, its breadth and height equal.” He pointed to the
Bible. “They simply transposed the dimensions of the celestial city from Revelation, the ‘new Jerusalem,’ into this edifice.”
“That’s been studied for centuries,” she said. “How does it relate to what we’re doing?”
“Remember what Einhard wrote. Revelations there will be clear once the secret of that wondrous place is deciphered.
He used that word cleverly. Not only is Revelation clear.”
He pointed to the Bible.
“But other revelations are clear, too.”
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN YEARSDOROTHEA FELT OUT OF CONTROL. She’d seen none of this coming. And
now, standing back inside the church, facing her mother and husband, Ulrich Henn obedient and off to the side, she fought to keep her usual composure.
“Don’t mourn the loss of that American,” Isabel said. “He was an opportunist.”
She faced Werner. “And you’re not?”
“I’m your husband.”
“In name only.”
“That’s by your choosing,” Isabel said, voice rising, then paused. “I understand about Georg.” The old woman’s gaze drifted toward the side chapel. “I miss him, too. But he’s gone and there’s nothing any of us can do about it.”
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.”
&
nbsp; 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.