The Charlemagne Pursuit (24 page)

FORTY-SIX

AACHEN

M
ALONE AND
C
HRISTL DESCENDED TO GROUND LEVEL
. T
HE BAG
that held the guidebooks lay on an unmolested wooden chair. He found one of the booklets and located a translation of the Latin mosaic.

IF THE LIVING STONES SHOULD FIT TOGETHER IN UNITY IF THE NUMBERS AND DIMENSIONS SHOULD CORRESPOND THEN THE WORK OF THE LORD WHO ERECTED THIS GREAT HALL WILL SHINE BRIGHTLY AND GRANT
SUCCESS TO THE PIOUS ENDEAVORS OF MAN WHOSE WORKS ALWAYS REMAIN AS AN EVERLASTING ORNAMENT IF THE ALMIGHTY ADVISER PROTECTS AND WATCHES OVER IT SO MAY GOD LET THIS WHOLE TEMPLE EXIST ON THE FIRM FOUNDATION LAID BY EMPEROR CHARLES

He handed the pamphlet to Christl. “Is this right?” He’d noticed in the restaurant that a few of the other books contained translations, each one slightly different.

She studied the text, then scanned the mosaic, comparing back and forth. The body lay a few feet away, limbs contorted at odd angles, blood on the floor, and they both seemed to pretend that it wasn’t there. He wondered about the gunshots, but doubted with the thickness of the walls and the wind outside that anyone had heard. At least no one had come to investigate so far.

“It’s correct,” she said. “A few minor variations, but nothing that changes the meaning.”

“You told me earlier that the inscription is original, only it’s a mosaic instead of paint. The chapel’s consecration—which is another word for ‘sanctification.’
Clarify this pursuit by applying the angel’s perfection to the lord’s sanctification.
The number twelve is the angel’s perfection, from Revelation. This octagon was a symbol of that perfection.” He pointed at the mosaic. “Could be every twelfth letter, but my guess is count every twelfth word.”

A cross signified where the inscription began and ended. He watched as she counted.

“
Claret,
” she said, coming to twelve. Then she found two more words in the twenty-fourth and thirty-sixth positions.
Quorum. Deus.
“That’s all. The last word,
velit,
is number eleven.”

“Interesting, wouldn’t you say? Three words, the last stopping at eleven so there’d be no more.”

“
Claret quorum deus.
Brightness of God.”

“Congratulations,” he said. “You just clarified the pursuit.”

“You already knew, didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “I tried it at the restaurant with one of the translations and found the same three words.”

“You could have mentioned that, along with the fact we were being followed.”

“I could have, but you could have mentioned something, too.”

She tossed him a perplexed look, but he wasn’t buying, so he asked, “Why are you playing me?”

D
OROTHEA STARED AT HER MOTHER
. “Y
OU KNOW WHERE
C
HRISTL
is?”

Isabel nodded. “I watch over both of my daughters.”

She tried to keep her features placid, but a growing anger complicated the task.

“Your sister teamed up with Herr Malone.”

The words stung her. “You had me send him away. You said he was a problem.”

“He was and still is, but your sister spoke with him after he met with you.”

A feeling of worry passed into foolishness. “You arranged that?”

Her mother nodded. “You had Herr Wilkerson. I gave her Malone.” Her body seemed numb, her mind paralyzed.

“Your sister is in Aachen, at Charlemagne’s chapel, doing what needs to be done. Now you must do the same.”

Her mother’s face remained impassive. Where her father had been carefree, loving, warm, her mother stayed disciplined, distant, aloof. Nannies had raised both Christl and her, and they’d always craved their mother’s attention, competing for what little affection there was to enjoy. Which she’d always thought accounted for much of their animosity—each daughter’s desire to be special, complicated by the fact that they were identical.

“Is this just a game for you?” she asked.

“It is far more than that. It is time my daughters grow up.”

“I despise you.”

“Finally—anger. If that will keep you from doing stupid things then by God hate me.”

Dorothea had reached her limit and advanced toward her mother. But Ulrich stepped between them. Her mother held up a hand and stopped him, as she would a trained animal, and Henn stepped back.

“What would you do?” her mother asked. “Attack me?”

“If I could.”

“And would that obtain what you want?”

The question halted her. Negative emotions ebbed away, leaving only guilt. As always.

A smile crept onto her mother’s lips. “You must listen to me, Dorothea. I have truly come to help.”

Werner watched with a tempered reserve. Dorothea pointed his way. “You killed Wilkerson and now have given me him. Does Christl get to keep her American?”

“That would not be fair. Though Werner is your husband, he’s not a former American agent. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

“And how do you know where he’ll be tomorrow?”

“That’s just it, child. I know precisely where he’ll be and I’m about to tell you.”

“Y
OU HAVE TWO MASTER’S DEGREES, YET
E
INHARD’S WILL WAS A
problem for you?” Malone asked Christl. “Get real. You already knew all of this.”

“I won’t deny that.”

“I’m an idiot for getting myself in the middle of this disaster. I’ve killed three people in the past twenty-four hours because of your family.”

She sat in one of the chairs. “I was able to solve the pursuit to this point. You’re right. It was relatively easy. But to someone living in the Dark Ages it was probably insurmountable. So few people then were literate. I have to say, I was curious to see how good you were.”

“Did I pass?”

“Quite well.”

“
But only those who appreciate the throne of Solomon and Roman frivolity shall find their way to heaven.
That’s next, so where to?”

“Whether you believe me or not, I don’t know the answer. I stopped at this point three days ago and returned to Bavaria—”

“To await me?”

“Mother called me home and told me what Dorothea was planning.”

He needed to make something clear. “I’m here only because of
my
father. I stayed because somebody is upset that I got a peek at that file, and that reaches straight to Washington.”

“I didn’t factor into your decision in any way?”

“One kiss does not make a relationship.”

“And I thought you enjoyed it.”

Time for a reality check. “Since we both know this much of the pursuit, we can now solve the rest separately.”

He headed toward the exit doors, but stopped at the body. How many people had he killed through the years? Too many. But always for a reason. God and country. Duty and honor.

What about this time?

No answer.

He stared back at Christl Falk, who sat unconcerned.

And he left.

FORTY-SEVEN

CHARLOTTE, 5:20 PM

S
TEPHANIE AND
E
DWIN
D
AVIS HUDDLED IN THE WOODS FIFTY
yards from Herbert Rowland’s lakeside house. Rowland had arrived home fifteen minutes ago and hurried inside carrying a pizza box. He’d immediately come back out and retrieved three logs from the woodpile. Smoke now puffed from a rough-hacked stone chimney. She wished they had a fire.

They’d spent a couple of hours during the afternoon buying additional winter clothes, thick gloves, and wool caps. They’d also stocked up on snacks and drink, then returned and assumed a position where they could safely watch the house. Davis doubted the killer would return before nightfall, but wanted to be in position just in case.

“He’s in for the night,” Davis said, keeping his voice to a whisper.

Though the trees blocked a breeze, the dry air was chilling by the minute. Darkness crept slowly over them in an almost amoebic flow. Their new clothes were all hunter’s garb, everything high-tech insulated. She’d never hunted in her life and had felt odd purchasing the stuff at a camping supply store near one of Charlotte’s upscale shopping malls.

They nestled at the base of a stout evergreen on a bed of pine needles. She was munching a Twix bar. Candy was her weakness. One drawer of her desk in Atlanta was filled with temptations.

She was still unsure they were doing the right thing.

“We should call the Secret Service,” she said in a hushed whisper.

“You always so negative?”

“You shouldn’t dismiss the idea so quickly.”

“This is my fight.”

“Seems to be mine now, too.”

“Herbert Rowland is in trouble. There’s no way he’d believe us if we knocked on the front door and told him. Neither would the Secret Service. We have nothing for proof.”

“Except the guy in the house today.”

“What guy? Who is he? Tell me what we know.”

She couldn’t.

“We’re going to have to catch him in the act,” he said.

“Because you think he killed Millicent?”

“He did.”

“How about you tell me what’s really happening here. Millicent has nothing to do with a dead admiral, Zachary Alexander, or Operation Highjump. This is more than some personal vendetta.”

“Ramsey is the common denominator. You know that.”

“Actually, all I know is I have agents who are trained to do this kind of thing, yet here I am freezing my ass off with a White House staffer who has a chip on his shoulder.”

She finished her candy bar.

“You like those things?” he asked.

“That’s not going to work.”

“Because I think they’re terrible. Now, Baby Ruth. That’s a candy bar.”

She reached into her shopping bag and found one. “I agree.”

He plucked it from her grasp. “Don’t mind if I do.”

She grinned. Davis was both irritating and intriguing.

“Why have you never married?” she asked.

“How do you know that I haven’t?”

“It’s obvious.”

He seemed to appreciate her perception. “Never became an issue.”

She wondered whose fault that had been.

“I work,” he said, as he chewed the candy. “And I didn’t want the pain.”

That she could understand. Her own marriage had been a disaster, ending in a long estrangement, followed by her husband’s suicide fifteen years ago. A long time to be alone. But Edwin Davis might be one of the few who understood.

“There’s more than pain,” she said. “Lots of joy there, too.”

“But there’s always pain. That’s the problem.”

She nestled closer to the tree.

“After Millicent died,” Davis said, “I was assigned to London. I found a cat one day. Sickly. Pregnant. I took her to the vet who saved her, but not the kittens. After, I took the cat back home. Good animal. Never once would she scratch you. Kind. Loving. I enjoyed having her. Then one day she up and died. It hurt. Real bad. I decided then and there that things I love tend to die. So. No more for me.”

“Sounds fatalistic.”

“More realistic.”

Her cell phone vibrated against her chest. She checked the display—Atlanta calling—and clicked on. After listening a moment, she said, “Connect him.”

“It’s Cotton,” she said to Davis. “Time he knows what’s happening.”

But Davis just kept eating, staring at the house.

“Stephanie,” Malone said in her ear. “Did you find what I need to know?”

“Things have become complicated.” And, shielding her mouth, she told him some of what had happened. Then she asked, “The file?”

“Probably gone.”

And she listened as he recounted what had happened in Germany.

“What are you doing now?” Malone asked her.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Considering the dumb-ass things I’ve done the past two days, I could believe anything.”

She told him.

“I’d say it’s not so stupid,” Malone said. “I’m standing in the freezing cold myself, outside a Carolingian church. Davis is right. That guy will be back.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Somebody is awfully interested in
Blazek,
or NR-1A, or whatever the damn sub should be called.” Malone’s annoyance seemed to have given way to uncertainty. “If the White House said naval intelligence inquired, that means Ramsey’s involved. We’re on parallel courses, Stephanie.”

“I got a guy here munching on a Baby Ruth who says the same thing. I hear you two have talked.”

“Anytime somebody saves my ass, I’m grateful.”

She recalled central Asia, too, but needed to know, “Where’s your path leading, Cotton?”

“Good question. I’ll get back to you. Careful there.”

“Same to you.”

M
ALONE CLICKED OFF THE PHONE
. H
E STOOD AT THE FAR END OF
the courtyard that accommodated the Christmas market, at the high point of the slope, near Aachen’s town hall, facing the chapel a hundred yards off. The snowy building glowed a phosphorescent green. More snow fell in silence, but at least the wind had died.

He checked his watch. Nearly eleven thirty.

All of the booths were shut tight, the swirling currents of voices and bodies silent and still until tomorrow. Only a few people milled about. Christl had not followed him from the chapel and, after speaking with Stephanie, he was even more confused.

Brightness of God.

The term had to be relevant to Einhard’s time. Something with a clear meaning. Did the words still possess any significance?

Easy way to find out.

He punched
SAFARI
on his iPhone, connected to the Internet, and accessed Google. He typed
BRIGHTNESS OF GOD EINHARD
and pressed
SEARCH
.

The screen flickered, then displayed the first twenty-five hits.

The top one answered his question.