The Charlemagne Pursuit (Cotton Malone 4)

He watched her carefully.

"None of which my grandfather participated in," she said, reading his thoughts. "All of that happened after he was fired and publicly shamed." She paused. "Long after he sentenced himself to this place and the abbey, where he toiled alone."

Hanging beside the Ahnenerbe banner was a tapestry that depicted the same Life Tree from the stickpin. Writing at the bottom caught his attention. NO PEOPLE LIVE LONGER THAN THE DOCUMENTATION OF THEIR CULTURE.

She saw his interest. "My grandfather believed that statement."

"And do you?"

She nodded. "I do."

He still did not understand why the Oberhauser family had preserved this collection in a climate-controlled room, with not a speck of dust anywhere. But he could understand one of her stated reasons. He respected his father, too. Though the man had been absent for much of Malone's childhood, he remembered the times they'd spent together throwing a baseball, swimming, or doing chores around the house. He'd remained angry for years after his father died at being denied what his friends, with both parents, took for granted. His mother never let him forget his father but, as he grew older, he came to realize that her memory might have been jaded. Being a navy wife was tough duty-just as being a Magellan Billet wife had eventually proven too much for his ex.

Christl led the way through the exhibits. Each turn revealed more of Hermann Oberhauser's passion. She stopped at another gaily painted wooden cabinet, similar to the one at the abbey. Inside one of its drawers she removed a single page encased within a heavy plastic sheath.

"This is Einhard's original last will and testament, found by Grandfather. A copy was at the abbey."

He studied what appeared to be vellum, the tight script in Latin, the ink faded to a pale gray.

"On the reverse is a German translation," she said. "The final paragraph is the important one."

In life my oath was given to the most pious Lord Charles, emperor and augustus, which required me to withhold all mention of Tartarus. A complete account of what I know was long ago reverently placed with Lord Charles on the day he died. If that sacred tomb ever be opened, those pages shall not be divided, nor partitioned, but know that Lord Charles would have them bestowed upon the holy emperor then holding the crown. To read those truths would reveal much and, after further considerations of piety and prudence, especially since witnessing the utter disregard Lord Louis has shown for his father's great efforts, I have conditioned the ability to read those words on knowing two other truths. The first I do hereby bestow to my son, who is directed to safeguard it for his son, and his son thereafter for eternity. Guard it dearly, for it is written in the language of the church and easily comprehended, but its message is not complete. The second, which would bestow a full comprehension of the wisdom of heaven waiting with Lord Charles, begins in the new Jerusalem. 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. Be warned, neither I, nor the Holy Ones, have patience with ignorance.

"It's what I told you about," she said. "Karl der Gro?e Verfolgung. The Charlemagne pursuit. It's what we have to decipher. It's what Otto III, and every Holy Roman Emperor after him failed to discover. Solving this puzzle will lead us to what our fathers were searching for in Antarctica."

He shook his head. "You said your grandfather went and brought stuff back. Obviously, he solved it. Didn't he leave the answer?"

"He left no records on how or what he learned. As I've said, he went senile and was useless after that."

"And why has it now become so important?"

She hesitated before answering him. "Neither Grandfather nor Father cared much for business. The world was what interested them. Unfortunately, Grandfather lived at a time when controversial ideas were banned. So he was forced to labor alone. Father was a hopeless dreamer who did not possess the ability to accomplish anything."

"He apparently managed to get to Antarctica aboard an American submarine."

"Which begs a question."

"Why was the American government interested enough to put him on that sub?"

He knew part of that could be explained by the times. America in the 1950s, '60s, and '70s pursued a number of unconventional investigations. Things like the paranormal, ESP, mind control, UFOs. Every angle was explored in the hope of finding an edge over the Soviets. Had this been another of those wild attempts?

"I was hoping," she said, "that you could help explain that."

But he was still waiting for an answer to his inquiry. So he asked again, "Why is any of this important now?"

"It could matter a great deal. In fact, it could literally change our world."

Behind Christl, her mother appeared, the old woman walking slowly toward where they stood, her careful steps making not a sound. "Leave us," she ordered her daughter.

Christl left, without a word.

Malone stood, holding Einhard's will.

Isabel straightened. "You and I have things to discuss."

TWENTY-SEVEN

JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA

1:20 AM

CHARLIE SMITH WAITED ACROSS THE STREET. ONE LAST APPOINTMENT before his work night ended.

Commander Zachary Alexander, retired USN, had spent the last thirty years doing nothing but complaining. His heart. Spleen. Liver. Bones. Not a body part had escaped scrutiny. Twelve years ago he became convinced he needed an appendectomy until a doctor reminded him that his appendix had been removed ten years before. A pack-a-day smoker in years past, he was sure three years ago that he'd contracted lung cancer, but test after test revealed nothing. Recently, prostate cancer gestated into another of his obsessive afflictions, and he'd spent weeks trying to convince specialists he was afflicted.

Tonight, though, Zachary Alexander's medical worries would all end.

Deciding how best to accomplish that task had been difficult. Since virtually every part of Alexander's body had been thoroughly tested, a medical death would almost certainly be suspicious. Violence was out of the question, as that always attracted attention. But the file on Alexander indicated Lives alone. Tired of incessant complaining, wife divorced him years ago. Children rarely visit, gets on their nerves too. Never has a woman over. Considers sex nasty and infectious. Professes to have quit smoking years ago, but most nights, and usually in bed, likes a cigar. A heavy imported brand, specially ordered through a tobacco shop in Jacksonville (address at end). Smokes at least one a day.

That tidbit had been enough to spark Smith's imagination and, coupled with a few other morsels from the file, he'd finally devised the means for Zachary Alexander's death.

Smith had flown from Washington, DC, to Jacksonville on a late-evening shuttle, then followed the directions in the file and parked about a quarter mile beyond Alexander's home. He'd slipped on a denim vest, grabbed a canvas bag from the rental's backseat, and backtracked up the road.

Only a few houses lined the quiet street.

Alexander was noted in the file as a heavy sleeper and chronic snorer, a notation that told Smith a rumble could be heard even outside this house.

He entered the front yard.

A rackety central air compressor roared from one side of the house, warming the interior. The night was chilly, but noticeably less cold than in Virginia.

He carefully made his way to one of the side windows and hesitated long enough to hear Alexander's rhythmic snoring. A fresh pair of latex gloves already encased his hands. He gingerly set down the canvas bag. From inside, he retrieved a small rubber hose with a hollow metal point. Carefully, he examined the window. Just as the file had indicated, silicon insulation sealed both sides from a half-assed repair.

He pierced the seal with the metal tip, then removed a small pressure cylinder from the bag. The gas was a noxious mixture he'd long ago discovered that rendered deep unconsc

iousness without any residual effects to blood or lungs. He connected the hose to the cylinder's exhaust port, opened the valve, and allowed the chemicals to silently invade the house.

After ten minutes, the snoring subsided.

He closed the valve, yanked the tubing free, and replaced everything in the bag. Though a small hole remained in the silicon, he wasn't concerned. That minuscule piece of incriminating evidence would soon vanish.

He walked toward the rear yard.

Halfway, he dropped the canvas bag, yanked a wooden access door free from the cement block foundation, and wiggled underneath. An assortment of electrical wires spanned the subfloor. The file showed that Alexander, a confirmed hypochondriac, was also a miser. A few years ago he'd paid a neighbor a few dollars to add an outlet for the bedroom, along with providing a direct line from the breaker box to the outside air compressor.

Nothing had been done to code.

He found the junction box the file noted and unscrewed the cover plate. He then loosened the 220-volt line, breaking the connection and silencing the compressor. He hesitated a few anxious seconds, listening, on the off chance Alexander might have escaped the effects of the gas. But nothing disturbed the night.

From another vest pocket he removed a knife and flayed the insulation protecting the electrical wires to and from the junction box. Whoever had performed the work had not encased the wires-their disintegration would be easily attributable to the lack of a protective conduit-so he was careful not to overdue the shearing.

He replaced the knife.