The Ludwig Conspiracy

  He just had to track down that book and the infuriating little bookseller.

  If he’d read the man correctly, the bookseller had not crept away to hide in a mouse hole. One thing that Lancelot had learned in his years of training was that a man who killed his opponent in cold blood didn’t hide; he went on the attack. Not to mention that this Steven Lukas seemed to be as inquisitive as a weasel.

  Lancelot rubbed his old scar. It always itched when something aroused his hunting instinct—like some ancient animal. Finally he patted the holster under his leather jacket, where he had his semiautomatic Glock 17.

  The knight smiled a chilly smile. This antiquarian bookseller shouldn’t present much of a problem. He could already smell the beach, and those daiquiris.

  11

  “NOT A BAD LOOK ON YOU,” Sara remarked, searching for a music channel on the car radio. “Makes you seem younger, anyway.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Steven grumbled. “I feel stupid enough already, thanks.”

  “Hey now.” Sara was swaying in time to a Nirvana song as she passed a honking Ford station wagon. “My dear ex-boyfriend David may have had the intellect of a twelve-year-old, but his clothes were always top quality.”

  “Sure, if you like hooded sweaters and jeans so low that the waist is at my knees. And will you please switch off that damn radio before they broadcast my description again?”

  “Anything you say, sir.”

  Sara turned off the radio, and Steven stared out the window, where his weary, unshaven face was reflected in the side mirror. He wore Ray-Ban sunglasses with silver lenses, and above them a baseball cap with the New York Yankees logo. He had changed from his white cotton button-down shirt into a T-shirt with the dates of all the gigs from Bon Jovi’s most recent tour printed on it. Over that, he had a well-worn leather jacket with shoulder pads, and instead of his corduroy pants with their neatly ironed creases, he wore torn blue jeans. He looked like an American backpacker visiting Germany with the sole aim of getting blotto at the Oktoberfest.

  “I’m dressed for a damn nightclub,” he muttered. “What does this famous ex-boyfriend David of yours do for a living?”

  “He’s a reporter for a trend magazine,” Sara replied. “You have to look the part. It’s kind of like a uniform.”

  “Oh, wonderful, I knew that was your type.” Steven pushed the cap well down over his face as a car came toward them on the other side of the road. “I guess I’d better interview myself. Antiquarian bookseller turns deranged murderer. It would make a great headline.”

  “Don’t make such a fuss, Herr Lukas,” said Sara, switching into fourth gear. “It really doesn’t look so bad. It’s even kind of attractive, if you want to know the truth. And it does its job. I mean, did anyone give you a second look in that drugstore?” She winked at him. “What’s more, I think that jacket suits you much better than your boring old suit.”

  “Just because I was born in the United States doesn’t mean I have to look like some spoiled prep schooler,” Steven complained.

  “Are you really American? Don’t let the girls know. They’ll think you’re some kind of rock star and be all over you.”

  “Very funny, Frau Lengfeld. You’d better concentrate on the road.”

  They had stopped at a small drugstore to buy him a toothbrush, shaving gear, and deodorant. The girl at the register had smiled at him, and the few women who looked at him did so with obvious approval. Reluctantly, Steven had to admit that his transformation into a man in his midthirties with a midlife crisis aroused more goodwill than anything else in most people. All the same, he felt simply . . . wrong. This wasn’t him, and he was sure that others would sense it sooner or later.

  “Only another hour to Linderhof at the most. Three-quarters of an hour if I speed.”

  Tires squealing, Sara turned onto the Garmisch expressway and merged into traffic, which was not too heavy now, in the early afternoon. The fall sunlight shone in through the windshield. Linden and beech trees with their leaves turning color rimmed the multilane road, the Alps were bright on the horizon. They were driving straight toward the mountains, which looked as if they were only a few miles away. They had soon left the city behind them, and the onion domes of village churches appeared rising out of the sea of leaves on the trees.

  This would be a nice trip, Steven thought, except that I’m wanted for acts of torture and demented murder.

  His eye fell yet again on the small military-green rucksack on his lap. It contained, wrapped in a plastic supermarket bag, the little wooden box with the photographs, the lock of hair, and the diary. He had also brought his notepad with the decoded part of the story. For a moment, Steven was tempted simply to fling the bundle out of the window. The wretched diary had blown his life apart like a category five hurricane. But curiosity won out, as well as that strange feeling that he still couldn’t explain. It was almost as if he were tethered to the book.

  Steven stared out the window. What could be so secret that Theodor Marot would code it twice over?

  “Oops, looks like we have a problem.”

  Sara’s voice jostled Steven from his thoughts. Before he could say anything in reply, he saw that a backup of traffic had formed on the tree-lined expressway ahead of them. Several hundred yards away, he saw a rhythmically flashing blue light. The drivers ahead of them had wound down their side windows and stared ahead curiously. Steven’s pulse shot up at once.

  “They’re looking for me,” he said. “First that description over the radio, now this. I must have been crazy to go along with your loopy plan.”

  “It could be anything,” Sara said, trying to reassure him. “Maybe it’s only an accident. Anyway, your own mother wouldn’t know you in those clothes.”

  “And suppose they ask to see my ID, then what?”

  Sara did not reply to that, and the car drove slowly toward the blue light. By now they were close enough to see that it was indeed a police checkpoint. A uniformed officer was standing by the roadside with an illuminated baton, directing vehicles over to the hard shoulder, where a police cruiser was parked. Through its side door, which was open, Steven could see police officers checking IDs. Sara’s Mini inched closer to the checkpoint.

  “Oh God, I won’t get through this,” Steven said. “This is the end.”

  “You just do exactly as I tell you,” Sara said calmly. “Take off those sunglasses and smile like a redneck from Alabama. That shouldn’t be so hard, seeing as you’re American. Okay?”

  Steven closed his eyes and swore under his breath. Then he did as she said. His smile felt as false as a smile at a funeral. Foot by foot, they approached the officer with the baton. He let the car in front of them through, and then it was their turn. Sara rolled the window down and hailed the police officer.

  “What’s going on?” she said indistinctly, as if she were chewing gum. “The Oktoberfest ended weeks ago. Still checking for drunk drivers?”

  The officer said nothing but sternly inspected the interior of the car.

  “Where are you going?” he finally asked, in an official tone.

  “Into the mountains,” Sara cheerfully replied. “Going to show my American friend here the Alps.”

  “Hi. Any problems with the car?” Steven spoke in English, with the broadest Southern accent he could summon, and raised a hesitant hand in greeting. His smile froze as the police officer scrutinized him. For a moment the man seemed about to say something; then he suddenly bent forward and pointed to the license plate.

  “Your registration runs out in three months,” he said sternly, turning to Sara. “Mind you see to it.”

  “I will. Have a nice day.”

  The art detective stepped on the gas, and soon the blue light behind them was only a distant blinking. For a long time, neither of them said anything.

  “That . . . that . . .” Steven stammered at last. “Well done! How did you manage to keep so cool?”

  “Cool?” Sara stared at him in horror, and only then did Ste
ven notice the pallor of her face. “I was so scared, I almost threw up. I haven’t been that nervous since I ran into a police patrol with five glasses of prosecco inside me outside a Munich nightclub!”

  Involuntarily, the bookseller smiled; obviously Sara wasn’t quite so hardboiled as she made out. “Anyway, you’re certainly cut out to be a detective,” he said at last. “Or do you learn that kind of thing in the mean streets of Berlin’s Wedding district?” He leaned back, breathing deeply. “I can do without a repeat performance of that little incident.”

  They drove in silence along the expressway as it led, like an endless gray ribbon, past woods and meadows. To their left, the little river Loisach wound its way through a hilly green landscape, dotted with stables, hamlets, and barns; they were a good deal closer to the Alps now.

  “I’ve been thinking about the amulet that man, Bernd Reiser, was wearing,” Sara suddenly announced. “I’ve an idea the swan acts as a kind of signal to those who wear it. As a symbol of recognition, showing that they’re loyal to the king.”

  “Did you ever hear of Cowled Men wearing an amulet like it?” Steven asked. The warm October sun dazzled him, and he narrowed his eyes. He had a bad headache. Clearly he hadn’t had enough sleep, and that encounter with the police had been the last straw.

  Sara shook her head. “Not that I know of. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. There are any number of other nut cases besides the Cowled Men. Societies whose members have sworn eternal loyalty to the king and meet on the anniversary of his death at his memorial cross in Berg. Quite a few of them wish the monarchy were back, and they go about in historical costumes. But I don’t think that makes them capable of murder.” She smiled. “Or anyway, not unless parliament voted for a massive rise in the price of beer.”

  Steven sighed. “I love Bavaria. If the country didn’t exist, we Yanks would have to invent it.”

  They had left the autobahn and were driving along a steep, winding road over a pass, with spruce woods and gray rocks by the roadside. After several hairpin turns, they finally reached a long, high plain in the Ammergau Alps, framed by a wild, mountainous landscape. Among the meadows, the old Benedictine monastery of Ettal Abbey shone radiantly white. Its sturdy structure reminded Steven of a Romanesque castle. Turning into a valley, they followed the course of a small river past stands of fir trees and freshly mown wildflower meadows where cows and horses grazed. Soon, they came to a large parking lot where a number of cars and buses were already standing.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Linderhof!” Sara announced, driving into one of the many free parking spots. She looked around in surprise. “Not so much activity here today,” she said. “I suppose the season will be over soon.”

  “Or they have some major event going on. Look.”

  Steven pointed to four dark blue Audis, in front of which stood several men and women in business suits. A few shouted into their cell phones. Beyond the group, a steward in uniform was closing off part of the parking lot.

  “Looks like a state reception,” Sara said, getting out. “Come on, let’s see what’s going on.”

  Together, they climbed the steps to the souvenir shop and ticket office, where a group of colorfully clad tourists was already assembled. Steven heard a murmured babble of Japanese, Russian, and American voices. He tentatively glanced at the pane of a display window, which reflected his distorted image in the ridiculous clothes. What he saw made him shudder.

  At least I won’t look conspicuous here.

  “You’re in luck,” said the woman at the ticket desk, smiling and giving them two tickets to see around the castle. “This is the last day of the season. Unfortunately, the Grotto of Venus and the Moorish kiosk are both closed to the public today. Honestly, you wouldn’t have time to see it all, anyway. We’re closing a little earlier than usual today. In exactly . . .” She looked at her watch. “In exactly two hours.”

  Steven almost dropped the ticket he was holding.

  Only two hours! he thought in a panic. Oh, great! And we have no idea what we’re even looking for except that it’s connected with LOVE.

  “Is that by any chance something to do with the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen out there?” he asked quietly, pointing to the parking lot behind them.

  The woman at the ticket desk raised one eyebrow and then looked cautiously around.

  “VIPs,” she whispered. “Manstein has rented the upper part of the park for a party tomorrow.”

  “Er, Manstein? I’m afraid I don’t know . . .”

  “Manstein Systems, I assume,” Sara said. “One of Europe’s leading IT companies. Profits in the billions. It gets its microchips built by the Chinese so that it can fire workers over here. Bavaria must really be in some deep financial straits if it’s renting out its castle grounds to unscrupulous industrial magnates.”

  The smile disappeared from the face of the girl selling tickets. “As I said, the park will be closed tomorrow, so as far as tourists are concerned, there’s no . . .”

  “Okay, fine.” Sara turned to the exit. “All the same,” she added over her shoulder, “the king would be turning in his grave.”

  Steven hurried after her, and they walked side by side through the park, past beech and spruce trees, and a small pool of water. Tourists passed them, already on their way home. They still couldn’t see the castle.

  “Two hours,” Sara hissed. “How are we going to find a clue about how to crack that code in just two hours? I swear to God I’m never going to buy software from Manstein Systems again. Filthy capitalist firm, renting the park and leaving us commoners outside.”

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Steven pointed out, soothingly. “Why don’t we split up? You search the park and I’ll search the castle.”

  “You’ve picked the easy option,” Sara grumbled, pointing ahead. “You can easily search the whole castle—unlike the park.”

  They crested a rise and looked down into a valley gently falling away below them. To the left, pathways under green foliage bordered a cascade that flowed into a basin of water farther down. To the right, a white temple stood on a hill, with terraced gardens and a pool with a spurting fountain. A white castle sat enthroned in the middle of the valley, looking like a miniature version of Versailles.

  Steven stopped in surprise. He had expected an imposing structure, something like Neuschwanstein, or at least Nymphenburg Palace in Munich, but this was no mighty castle. Embedded in the huge park, it looked more like a charming toy.

  A king’s toy.

  “I’d expected something larger,” he murmured.

  Sara smiled at him. “Most say that when they first come here, with the image of Neuschwanstein Castle in their heads. All the same, the king spent most of his final years here at Linderhof. He venerated Louis the Fourteenth, as you know.” She pointed to the fountain, more than sixty-five feet high. “This is a mini-Versailles, Baroque layout of the gardens and all. Ludwig’s favorite playgrounds are in the park itself. The Grotto of Venus, the Moroccan house, the hermitage, and up there, the Temple of Venus and Hunding’s hut.”

  “Hunding’s hut?” Steven said, baffled. “Never heard of it.”

  “It comes from Wagner’s Ring of the Nibelung. Ludwig had it built to the composer’s description. A kind of Germanic log cabin. When Ludwig was in the mood for it, his entourage had to cavort about in animal skins, drink mead from horns, and dance around in a ring.”

  Steven wrinkled his brow. “And you still say the king wasn’t nuts?”

  “Don’t you ever have dreams, Herr Lukas?” Sara asked, laughing. “Ludwig just had the money to make his come true. He wanted to escape from the world, like so many of us.” She pointed surreptitiously to a group of tourists in shorts and Windbreakers behind them. “Believe me, if we all had enough money to realize our dreams, the world would be a giant amusement park full of space ships, game shows, arcades, and brothels. Myself, I prefer the king’s fantasies.”

  A few dozen peop
le had assembled outside the castle, waiting for the next guided tour. Some passed the time by smoking; others photographed themselves and their families in front of every detail of the building. Somewhere a baby was crying.

  “What’s that tree?” Steven asked. He pointed to a scrawny linden tree on the right, beyond the pool of water, the only detail that didn’t fit into the perfect symmetry of the castle garden.

  Sara shrugged and glanced at the crumpled map that she had picked up at the ticket office. “Known as the king’s linden tree,” she read in a monotone, “it grew here long before the castle was built. Blah, blah, blah. Time’s wasting.” She pointed to the crowd in front of the entrance. “The pack is getting restless. We’ll do as you suggested. I’ll look around the park, and you go on one of those guided tours of the castle. Enjoy!” She winked at him again and then disappeared down one of the paths under the arbors.

  Sighing, Steven joined the line of overweight American tourists whose accent told him they came from Texas. A man pressed his chewing gum onto the castle wall, and then the procession slowly started moving.

  12

  AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER, Steven was no wiser than before.

  The rooms inside the castle were, in fact, impressive. That didn’t alter the fact that he still didn’t have the faintest idea of what he should be looking for. He had taken three successive guided tours with commentaries in English, in German, and finally in Dutch. He had memorized every detail of those rooms. When he finally asked the tour guide about the name of Marot, she only responded with an annoyed shrug. By now, word had obviously gone around that this American tourist with the baseball cap and leather jacket was an incorrigible Ludwig fan. Steven consoled himself by thinking that he was probably not the only one around. The tour guides had certainly encountered worse.