A bullet ricocheted off the floor just ahead of him.
He scampered behind more rubble as another bullet searched for him. He was running out of options. The gun lay too far away. Cold wind parched his face. The flashlight beam found him.
Damn. He cursed himself, then Langford Ramsey.
A gun blast erupted.
The flashlight beam jiggled, then its rays scattered in all directions.
A body thudded to the floor.
Then silence.
He pushed himself up and spied a darkened form-tall, shapely, feminine-standing in the kitchen doorway, the outline of a shotgun in her arms.
"Are you all right?" Dorothea Lindauer asked.
"Nice shot."
"I saw you were having trouble."
He walked over to Lindauer and stared at her through the darkness.
"I assume this resolves all doubts you might have about your Admiral Ramsey and his intentions?" she asked.
He nodded. "From now on we'll do this your way."
NINETEEN
MALONE SHOOK HIS HEAD. TWINS? HE CLOSED THE DOOR. "I JUST met your sister. I wondered why she let me go so easily. You two just couldn't speak to me together?"
Christl Falk shook her head. "We don't speak much."
Now he was puzzled. "Yet you're obviously working together."
"No, we're not." Her English, unlike her sister's, contained no hint of German.
"Then what are you doing here?"
"She baited you today. Drew you in. I was wondering why. I planned to speak with you when you came down from the summit, but thought better after what happened."
"You saw?"
She nodded. "Then I followed you here."
What the hell had he stumbled into?
"I had nothing to do with what happened," she made clear.
"Except knowing about it, in advance."
"I only knew that you'd be there. Nothing else."
He decided to get to the point. "You want to know about your father, too?"
"I do."
He sat on the bed and allowed his gaze to dart to the far side of the room and the built-in wooden seat beneath the windows, where he'd been talking to Stephanie when he'd spotted the woman from the cable car. The report on Blazek still lay where he left it. He wondered if his visitor had peeked.
Christl Falk had made herself comfortable in one of the chairs. She wore a long-sleeved denim shirt and pleated khaki pants, both of which flattered her obvious contours. These two beautiful women, nearly identical in appearance, save for differing hairstyles-hers was shoulder-length, brushed smooth, falling free-seemed quite varied in personality. Where Dorothea Lindauer had conveyed pride and privilege, Christl Falk telegraphed struggle.
"Did Dorothea tell you about Grandfather?"
"I got a synopsis."
"He did work for the Nazis, heading up the Ahnenerbe."
"Such a noble endeavor."
She seemed to catch his sarcasm. "I agree. It was nothing more than a research institute to manufacture archaeological evidence for political purposes. Himmler believed Germany's ancestors evolved far off, where they'd been some sort of master race. Then that supposed Aryan blood migrated to various parts of the world. So he created the Ahnenerbe-a mix of adventurers, mystics, and scholars-and set out to find those Aryans while eradicating everyone else."
"Which one was your grandfather?"
She looked puzzled.
"Adventurer, mystic, or scholar?"
"All three, actually."
"But he apparently was a politician, too. He headed the thing, so he surely knew the Ahnenerbe's true mission."
"That's where you're wrong. Grandfather only believed in the concept of a mythical Aryan race. Himmler manipulated his obsession into a tool for ethnic cleansing."
"That rationalization was used at the Nurnberg trials, after the war, with no success."
"Believe what you want, it's not important to why I'm here."
"Which I've been waiting-rather patiently, I might add-for you to explain."
She folded one knee over the other. "Script and symbol studies were the Ahnenerbe's main interest-looking for ancient Aryan messages. But in late 1935 Grandfather actually found something." She motioned at her coat, which lay on the bed beside him. "In the pocket."
He reached inside and removed a book sheathed in a plastic bag. In size, shape, and condition it looked like the one from earlier, except no symbol was embossed on its cover.
"Do you know about Einhard?" she asked.
"I've read his Life of Charlemagne."
"Einhard was from the eastern part of the Frankish kingdom, the portion that was distinctly German. He was educated at Fulda, which was one of the most impressive centers of learning in the Frankish land. He was accepted into the court of Charlemagne around 791. Charlemagne was unique for his time. Builder, political governor, religious propagandist, reformer, patron of the arts and science. He liked to surround himself with scholarly men, and Einhard became his most trusted adviser. When Charlemagne died in 814, his son Louis the Pious made Einhard his private secretary, too. But sixteen years later, Einhard retired from court when Louis and his sons started fighting. He died in 840 and was buried at Seligenstadt."
"You're just a wealth of information."
"I hold three degrees in medieval history."
"None of which explains what the hell you're doing here."
"The Ahnenerbe searched many places for those Aryans. Tombs were opened throughout Germany." She pointed. "Inside Einhard's grave, Grandfather found that book you're holding."
"I thought this came from Charlemagne's tomb?"
She smiled. "I see Dorothea showed you her volume. That one did come from Charlemagne's tomb. This one's different."
He couldn't resist. He slipped the ancient volume from the bag and carefully opened it. Latin filled the pages, along with examples of the same strange writing and odd art and symbols he'd seen earlier.
"In the 1930s Grandfather found that book, along with Einhard's last will and testament. By Charlemagne's time, men of means were leaving written wills. In Einhard's will, Grandfather discovered a mystery."
"And how do you know that it's not more fantasy? Your sister didn't speak too kindly of your grandfather."
"Which is another reason why she and I detest each other."
"And why are you so fond of him?"
"Because he also found proof."
DOROTHEA KISSED WILKERSON GENTLY ON THE LIPS. SHE NOTICED that he was still shaking. They stood in the ruins of the lodge and watched the car burn.
"We're in this together now," she said.
He surely realized that. And something else. No admiralty for him. She'd told him Ramsey wa
s a snake, but he'd refused to believe her.
Now he knew better.
"A life of luxury and privilege can be a good substitute," she told him.
"You have a husband."
"In name only." She saw he needed reassuring. Most men did. "You handled yourself well in the house."
He wiped sweat from his forehead. "I even managed to kill one of them. Shot him in the chest."
"Which shows you can handle things, when necessary. I saw them approaching the lodge when I was driving up. I parked in the woods and approached carefully while they made their initial assault. I was hoping you could hold them off until I found one of the shotguns."
The valley, stretching for kilometers in all directions, belonged to her family. No neighbors anywhere close.
"And those cigarettes you gave me worked," she said. "You were right about that woman. Trouble that needed eliminating."
Compliments were working. He was calming down.
"I'm glad you found that gun," he said.
Heat from the car fire warmed the freezing air. She still held the shotgun, reloaded and ready, but she doubted there'd be any more visitors tonight.
"We need those boxes I brought," he said. "They were in the kitchen closet."
"I saw them."
Interesting how danger stimulated desire. This man, a navy captain with good looks, modest brains, and few guts, attracted her. Why were weak men so desirable? Her husband was a nothing who allowed her to do as she pleased. Most of her lovers were similar.
She propped the shotgun against a tree.
And kissed Wilkerson again.
"WHAT KIND OF PROOF?" MALONE ASKED.
"You look tired," Christl said.
"I am, and hungry."
"Then let's get something to eat."
He'd had enough of women jerking his chain, and if not for his father's involvement he would have told her, like her sister, to stuff it. But he actually wanted to know more.
"All right. But you're buying."
They left the hotel and walked in falling snow to a cafe a few blocks away in one of Garmisch's pedestrian-only zones. Inside, he ordered a slab of roasted pork and fried potatoes. Christl Falk asked for soup and bread.