The Charlemagne Pursuit (17 page)

He froze.

The man wore a long wool coat and kept both hands in his pockets.

“I don’t want to,” the stranger said, “but I will shoot you here, if need be.”

His eyes drifted to the man’s coat pocket.

A sick feeling invaded his stomach. No way Ramsey’s people had followed him. But he’d been so intent on them, he’d neglect to notice anyone else. “You’re not from Berlin, are you?” he asked.

“
Nein.
I’m something altogether different.”

THIRTY-FOUR

AACHEN, GERMANY
1:20 PM

M
ALONE ADMIRED ONE OF THE LAST REMNANTS OF THE
C
AROLINGIAN
empire, known then as the Church of Our Lady and now as Charlemagne’s chapel. The building seemed to be formed in three distinct sections. A gothic tower, which appeared to stand apart. A round but angular midsection, connected to the tower by a covered bridge, topped with an unusual pleated dome. And a tall, elongated building that seemed all roof and stained-glass windows. The conglomeration had been erected from the latter part of the eighth to the fifteenth centuries, and it was amazing that it had survived, particularly the last hundred years when, Malone knew, Aachen had been mercilessly bombed.

The chapel stood on the low end of a city slope, once connected to the palace proper by a low line of wooden structures that housed a solarium, a military garrison, law courts, and quarters for the king and his family.

Charlemagne’s palatinate.

Only a courtyard, the chapel, and the foundations of the palace upon which fourteenth-century builders erected Aachen’s town hall remained. The rest had disappeared centuries ago.

They entered the chapel through the west doors, the ancient portal cloistered from the street. Three steps led down into a baroque-style porch, its walls whitewashed and unadorned.

“Those steps are significant,” Christl said. “Ground levels outside have risen since Charlemagne’s time.”

He recalled Dorothea’s tale about Otto III. “Beneath here is where they found Charlemagne’s tomb? And the book Dorothea has?”

She nodded. “Some say Otto III dug through this flooring and found the king sitting upright, his fingers pointing to the Gospel of Mark.
For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?
”

He caught her cynicism.

“Others say Emperor Barbarossa found the grave site here in 1165, and the body was lying in a marble coffin. That Roman sarcophagus is on display in the treasury next door. Barbarossa supposedly substituted a gilded chest, which is now”—she pointed ahead into the chapel—“there, in the choir.”

Beyond the altar, he spotted a golden reliquary displayed within an illuminated glass enclosure. They left the porch and stepped into the chapel. A circular passage spanned to the left and right, but he seemed drawn to the center of the inner octagon. Light, like mist, filtered down from windows high in the dome.

“A hexadecagon wrapping an octagon,” he said.

Eight massive pillars folded into each other to form double pillars that held the high dome aloft. Rounded arches rose skyward to the upper galleries where slender columns, marble bridges, and latticework grilles connected everything.

“For three centuries after its completion, this was the tallest building north of the Alps,” Christl told him. “Stone had been used in the south to construct temples, arenas, palaces, and later churches, but this type of building was unknown among Germanic tribes. This was the first attempt, outside the Mediterranean, to build a stone vault.”

He stared up at the towering gallery.

“Little of what you see is from Charlemagne’s time,” she said. “The structure itself, obviously. The thirty-six marble columns, there, on the second level. Some of them are original—carted from Italy, stolen by Napoleon, but eventually returned. The eight bronze lattices between the arches are also original. Everything else came later. Carolingians whitewashed their churches and painted the insides. Later, Christians added elegance. This remains, though, the only church in Germany built on orders of Charlemagne still standing.”

He had to tilt his back to spy up into the dome. Its golden mosaics depicted twenty-four elders, clad in white, standing before the throne, proffering golden crowns in adoration of the Lamb. From Revelation, if he wasn’t mistaken. More mosaics decorated the drum beneath the dome. Mary, John the Baptist, Christ, Archangel Michael, Gabriel, even Charlemagne himself.

Suspended by a wrought-iron chain, whose links thickened as they rose, was a massive, wheel-shaped candelabra replete with intricate goldsmithing.

“Emperor Barbarossa presented that chandelier in the twelfth century,” she said, “after his coronation. It’s symbolic of the heavenly Jerusalem, the city of lights, which will come down from heaven like a victor’s crown, as promised to every Christian.”

Revelation again. He thought about another cathedral, St. Mark’s in Venice. “This place has a Byzantine look and feel.”

“It reflects Charlemagne’s love of Byzantine richness, as opposed to Roman austerity.”

“Who designed it?”

She shrugged. “No one knows. A Master Odo is mentioned in some of the texts, but nothing is known about him except that he apparently knew of the architecture from the south. Einhard definitely participated, as did Charlemagne himself.”

The interior didn’t impress with its size, instead the illusion was more intimate, the eyes compelled to swing upward, toward heaven.

Admission to the chapel was free, but several paying group tours wandered about, their guides explaining the highlights. Their tail from the train station had wandered inside, too, using one of the crowds for cover. Then, apparently satisfied there was but one entrance, he had drifted back outside.

Malone had guessed right. His rental car had been tagged. How else could the gunman have found them last night? They certainly weren’t followed. Today they’d driven the same car from Reichshoffen to Garmisch to catch the train, where he’d first spotted Hatchet Face.

No better way to know if someone was following than to lead him.

Christl pointed up to the second-story gallery. “That area was reserved exclusively for the monarch. Thirty Holy Roman Emperors were crowned here. Having sat on the throne and followed in the footsteps of Charlemagne, they symbolically gained possession of the em stevepire. No emperor was deemed legitimate until he ascended the throne that sits up there.”

Chairs filled the octagon for worshipers and, as he saw, tourists. He sat off to the side and asked, “Okay, why are we here?”

“Mathematics and architecture were part of Einhard’s love.”

He caught what she’d not voiced. “Taught to him by the Holy Ones?”

“Look at this place. Quite an accomplishment for the ninth century. A lot of firsts here. That stone vault overhead? It was revolutionary. Whoever designed and built it knew what they were doing.”

“But what does this chapel have to do with Einhard’s will?”

“In the will Einhard wrote that a comprehension of the wisdom of heaven begins in the new Jerusalem.”

“This is the new Jerusalem?”

“That’s exactly how Charlemagne referred to this chapel.”

He recalled the rest.
“Revelations there will be clear once the secret of that wondrous place is deciphered. Clarify this pursuit by applying the angel’s perfection to the lord’s sanctification. But only those who appreciate the throne of Solomon and Roman frivolity shall find their way to heaven.”

“You have a good memory.”

“If you only knew.”

“Riddles are not my strong point, and I’ve had a hard time with this one.”

“Who says I’m good with them?”

“Mother says you have quite a reputation.”

“It’s good to know that I’ve passed Mama’s test. Like I told her and you, she seems to have chosen sides.”

“She’s trying to get Dorothea and me to work together. At some point we may have to. But I plan to avoid that as long as possible.”

“In the abbey, when you saw that cabinet had been vandalized, you thought Dorothea was the culprit, didn’t you?”

“She knew Father kept his papers there. But I never told her how the cabinet opened. She was never interested, until lately. She clearly didn’t want me to have the documents.”

“But she wanted you to have me?”

“That is puzzling.”

“Maybe she thought I’d be useless?”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Flattery? You’ll try anything.”

She smiled.

He wanted to know, “Why would Dorothea steal the documents at the abbey and leave the originals of at least one of them in the castle?”

“Dorothea rarely ventured beneath Reichshoffen. She knows little of what’s down there.”

“So who killed the woman from the cable car?”

Her face hardened. “Dorothea.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “You must know that my sister has little or no conscience.”

“You two are the strangest twins I’ve ever come across.”

“Though we were born at the same time, that doesn’t make us the same. We always maintained a distance from each other that we both enjoy.”

“So what happens when you two inherit it all?”

“I think Mother hopes this quest will end our differences.”

He caught her reservations. “Not going to happen?”

“We both promised that we’d try.”

“You each have a strange way of trying.”

He stared around at the chapel. A few feet away, within the outer polygon, stood the main altar.

Christl noticed his interest. “The panel in front is said to have been made from gold that Otto III found in Charlemagne’s tomb.”

“I already know what you’re going to say.
But nobody knows for sure.
”

Her explanations, so far, had been specific, but that didn’t mean they were right. He checked his watch and stood. “We need to eat something.”

She gave him a puzzled look. “Shouldn’t we deal with this first?”

“If I knew how, I would.”

Before entering the chapel, they’d detoured to the gift shop and learned that the interior stayed open until seven
PM
, the last tour starting at six. He’d also noticed an assortment of guidebooks and historical materials, some in English, most in German. Luckily, he was reasonably fluent.

“We need to make a stop, then find a place to eat.”

“The Marktplatz is not far away.”

He motioned toward the main doors. “Lead the way.”

THIRTY-FIVE

CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA
11:00 AM

C
HARLIE
S
MITH WORE STONE-WASHED JEANS, A DARK KNIT SHIRT
, and steel-toed boots, all bought a few hours ago from a Wal-Mart. He imagined himself one of the Duke boys, in Hazzard County, just after climbing out the driver’s-side window of the General Lee. Light traffic on the two-lane highway north from Charlotte had allowed a leisurely pace, and now he stood shivering among trees and stared at the house, maybe twelve hundred square feet under one roof.

He knew its history.

Herbert Rowland had bought the property in his thirties, made payments until his forties, then built the cabin in his fifties. Two weeks after retiring from the navy, Rowland and his wife packed a moving van and drove the twenty miles north from Charlotte. They’d spent the past ten years living quietly beside the lake.

On the flight north from Jacksonville, Smith had studied the file. Rowland possessed two genuine medical concerns. The first was a long-standing diabetic condition. Type 1, insulin-dependent. Controllable, provided he maintained daily insulin injections. The second was a love of alcohol, whiskey being Rowland’s preference. A bit of a connoisseur, he spent a portion of his monthly navy retirement check on premium blends at a high-priced Charlotte liquor store. He always drank at home, at night, he and his wife together.

His notes from last year suggested a death consistent with diabetes. But devising a method to accomplish that result, while at the same time not raising any suspicion, had taken thought.

The front door opened and Herbert Rowland strolled out into bright sunshine. The older man walked straight to a dirty Ford Tundra and drove away. A second vehicle belonging to Rowland’s wife was nowhere to be seen. Smith waited in the thickets ten minutes, then decided to risk it.

He walked to the front door and knocked.

No answer.

Again.

It took less than a minute to pick the lock. He knew there was no alarm system. Rowland liked to tell people he considered it a waste of money.

He carefully opened the door, stepped inside, and found the answering machine. He checked the saved messages. The sixth one, from Rowland’s wife, dated and timed a few hours ago, pleased him. She was at her sister’s and had called to check on him, ending by noting that she’d be home the day after tomorrow.

His plan immediately changed.

Two days alone was an excellent opportunity.

He passed a rack of hunting rifles. Rowland was an avid woodsman. He checked a couple of the shotguns and rifles. He liked to hunt, too, only his sport walked upright on two legs.

He entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Lining the door shelf, exactly where the file indicated, stood four vials of insulin. With gloved fingers he examined each. All full, plastic seals intact, save for the one currently in use.

He carried the vial to the sink, then removed an empty syringe from his pocket. Puncturing the rubber seal with the needle, he worked the plunger, siphoned out the medicine, then expelled the liquid down the drain. He repeated the process two more times until the vial was empty. From another pocket he found a bottle of saline. He filled the syringe and injected the contents, repeating the process until the vial was once again three-quarters full.

He rinsed the sink and replaced the tampered vial in the refrigerator. Eight hours from now, when Herbert Rowland injected himself, he’d notice little. But alcohol and diabetes didn’t mix. Excessive alcohol and untreated diabetes were absolutely fatal. Within a few hours Rowland should be in shock, and by morning he’d be dead.

All Smith would have to do was maintain a vigil.

He heard a motor outside and rushed to the window.

A man and woman emerged from a Chrysler compact.

D
OROTHEA WAS CONCERNED.
W
ILKERSON HAD BEEN GONE A LONG
time. He’d said he would find a bakery and bring back some sweets, but that had been nearly two hours ago.

The room phone rang and startled her. No one knew she was here except—

She lifted the receiver.

“Dorothea,” Wilkerson said. “Listen to me. I was followed, but managed to lose them.”

“How did they find us?”

“I have no idea, but I made it back to the hotel and spotted men out front. Don’t use your cell phone. It can be monitored. We do that all the time.”

“You sure you lost them?”

“I used the U-Bahn. It’s you they’re keying on now since they think you’ll lead them to me.”

Her mind plotted. “Wait a few hours, then take the underground to the Hauptbahnhof. Wait near the tourist office. I’ll be there at six.”

“How are you going to leave the hotel?” he asked.

“As much business as my family does here, the concierge should be able to handle whatever I ask.”

S
TEPHANIE STEPPED FROM HER CAR AND
E
DWIN
D
AVIS EMERGED
from the passenger side. They’d driven from Atlanta to Charlotte, about 240 miles, all interstate highway, the trip a little under three hours. Davis had learned the physical address for Herbert Rowland, LCDR, retired, from navy records and Google had provided directions.

The house sat north of Charlotte, beside Eagles Lake, which, from its size and irregular shape, seemed man-made. The shoreline was steep, forested, and rocky. Few homesites existed. Rowland’s wood-sided, hip-roofed house was nestled a quarter mile from the road, among bare hardwoods and green poplars, with a great view.

Stephanie was unsure about all of this and had voiced her concerns during the trip, suggesting that law enforcement should be involved.

But Davis had balked.

“This is still a bad idea,” she said to him.

“Stephanie, if I went to the FBI, or the local sheriff, and told them what I suspected, they’d say I was nuts. And who the hell knows? Maybe I am.”

“Zachary Alexander dying last night isn’t a fantasy.”

“But it isn’t a provable murder, either.”

They’d heard from the Secret Service in Jacksonville. No evidence of foul play had been detected.

She noticed no cars parked at the house. “Doesn’t seem like anyone’s home.”

Davis slammed the car door. “One way to find out.”

She followed him onto the porch, where he banged on the front door. No answer. He knocked again. After another few moments of silence, Davis tested the knob.

It opened.

“Edwin—” she started, but he’d already entered.

She waited on the porch. “This is a felony.”

He turned. “Then stay out there in the cold. I’m not asking you to break the law.”

She knew clear thinking was needed, so she walked inside. “I have to be out of my mind to be in the middle of this.”

He smiled. “Malone told me he said the same thing to you last year in France.”

She had no idea. “Really? What else did Cotton say?”

He did not reply, just headed off to investigate. The décor made her think of Pottery Barn. Ladder-back chairs, sectional sofa, jute rugs across bleached hardwood floors. Everything was neat and orderly. Framed pictures dominated the walls and tables. Rowland was obviously a sportsman. Specimens dotted the walls, mixed with more portraits of what appeared to be children and grandchildren. A sectional sofa faced a wooden deck. Across the lake, the far shore was visible. The house seemed to sit in the elbow of a cove.

Davis remained intent on looking around, opening drawers and cabinets.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He drifted into the kitchen. “Just trying to get a sense of things.”

She heard him open the refrigerator.

“You learn a lot about someone by studying their refrigerator,” he said.

“Really? What did you learn in mine?”

He’d ventured into hers earlier, before they’d left, to get something to drink.

“That you don’t cook. It reminded me of college. Not much there.”

She grinned. “And what have you learned here?”

He pointed. “Herbert Rowland is a diabetic.”

She noticed vials with Rowland’s name on them marked
INSULIN
. “That -’t all that hard.”

“And he likes chilled whiskey. Maker’s Mark. Good stuff.”

Three bottles stood on the top shelf.

“You a drinker?” she asked.

He closed the refrigerator door. “I like a shot of sixty-year-old Macallan every once in a while.”

“We need to leave,” she said.

“This is for Rowland’s own good. Somebody is going to kill him, in a way he least expects. We need to check the other rooms.”

She still wasn’t convinced and walked back into the den. Three doors led off from the great room. Beneath one, she noticed something. Light shifting, shadows, as if someone had just walked past on the other side.

Alarm bells rang in her brain.

She reached beneath her coat and withdrew a Magellan Billet–issue Beretta.

Davis caught sight of the gun. “You came armed?”

She held up her index finger, signaling for quiet, and pointed to the door.

Company,
she mouthed.

C
HARLIE
S
MITH HAD BEEN TRYING TO LISTEN
. T
HE TWO INTRUDERS
had boldly entered the house, forcing him into the bedroom, where he’d shut the door and stood close. When the man had said he planned on checking the remaining rooms, Smith knew he was in trouble. He’d brought no gun. He only toted one when absolutely necessary, and since he’d flown from Virginia to Florida, bringing one along had been impossible. Besides, guns were a poor way to inconspicuously kill somebody. Lots of attention, evidence, and questions.

No one should be here. The file made clear that Herbert Rowland volunteered at the local library every Wednesday until five
PM
. He wasn’t due back for hours. His wife, of course, was gone. He’d caught snippets of the conversation, which seemed more personal than professional, the woman clearly on edge. But then he’d heard.
You came armed?

He needed to leave, but there was nowhere to go. Four windows lined the bedroom’s exterior walls, but they could provide no ready escape.

A bathroom and two closets opened off the bedroom.

He needed to do something fast.