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The mother of all scripts.
The language of heaven.
Utter nonsense, but the Nazis loved those romantic ideas. By 1931 ten thousand men were part of the SS, which Himmler eventually transformed into a racial elite of young Aryan males. Its Race and Settlement Office meticulously determined if an applicant was genetically fit for membership. Then, in 1935, Himmler went a step farther and created a brain trust dedicated to reconstructing a golden Aryan past.
The trust's mission was twofold.
Unearth evidence of Germany's ancestors back to the Old Stone Age, and convey those findings to the German people.
A long label lent credibility to its supposed importance. Deutsches Ahnenerbe-Studiengesellschaft fur Geistesurgeschichte. German Ancestral Her itage-the Society for the Study of the History of Primeval Ideas. Or, more simply, the Ahnenerbe. Something inherited from the forefathers. One hundred thirty-seven scholars and scientists, another eighty-two filmmakers, photographers, artists, sculptors, librarians, technicians, accountants, and secretaries.
Headed by Hermann Oberhauser.
And while her grandfather toiled on fiction, Germans died by the millions. Hitler eventually fired him from the Ahnenerbe and publicly humiliated both him and the entire Oberhauser family. That was when he retreated here, to the abbey, safe behind walls that religion protected, and tried to rehabilitate himself.
But never did.
She remembered the day he died.
"Papa." She knelt beside the bed and grasped his frail hand.
The old man's eyes opened, but he said nothing. He'd long ago lost all memory of her.
"It's never time to give up," she said.
"Let me go ashore." The words came only upon his breath and she had to strain to hear him.
"Papa, what are you saying?"
His eyes glazed over, the oily glare disconcerting. He slowly shook his head.
"You want to die?" she asked.
"I must go ashore. Tell the captain."
"What do you mean?"
He shook his head again. "Their world. It is gone. I have to go ashore."
She started to speak, to reassure him, but his grip relaxed and his chest fluttered. Then his mouth slowly opened and he said, "Heil… Hitler."
Her spine tingled every time she thought of those final words. Why had he felt compelled, with his dying breath, to proclaim an allegiance to evil?
Unfortunately, she would never know.
The door to the subterranean room opened and the woman from the cable car returned. Dorothea watched as she strolled confidently through the displays. How had things come to this point? Her grandfather had died a Nazi, her father had perished a dreamer.
Now she was about to repeat it all.
"Malone's gone," the woman said. "He drove off. I need my money."
"What happened on the mountain today? Your associate wasn't supposed to be killed."
"Things blew out of hand."
"You drew a lot of attention to something that wasn't supposed to be noticed."
"It worked out. Malone came, and you were able to have that chat you wanted."
"You may have jeopardized everything."
"I did what you asked me to do and I want to be paid. And I want Erik's share. He definitely earned it."
"His death means nothing to you?" she asked.
"He overreacted and it cost him."
Dorothea had quit smoking ten years ago, but she'd recently started again. Nicotine seemed to calm her constantly frayed nerves. She stepped to one of the painted cabinets, found a pack, and offered one to her guest.
"Danke," the woman said, accepting.
She knew from their first meeting that the woman smoked. She selected a cigarette for herself, found some matches, and lit both.
The woman sucked two deep drags. "My money, please."
"Of course."
She watched as the eyes changed first. A pensive gaze was replaced by rushing fear, pain, then desperation. Muscles in the woman's face tightened, signaling agony. Fingers and lips released the cigarette and her hands reached for her throat. Her tongue sprang from her mouth and she gagged, sucking for air, and finding none.
Her mouth foamed.
She managed one last breath, coughed, and tried to speak, then her neck relaxed and her body collapsed.
On the waft of her last exhale came a tinge of bitter almond.
Cyanide. Skillfully laced into the tobacco.
Interesting how the dead woman had worked for people she knew nothing about. Never once had she asked a single question. Dorothea had not made the same mistake. She'd thoroughly checked out her allies. The dead woman had been simple-money motivated her-but Dorothea could not risk a loose tongue.
Cotton Malone? He could be a different story.
Since something told her she wasn't done with him.
FIFTEEN
WASHINGTON, DC
3:20 PM
RAMSEY RETURNED TO THE NATIONAL MARITIME INTELLIGENCE Center, which housed naval intelligence. He was greeted inside his private office by his chief of staff, an ambitious captain named Hovey.
"What happened in Germany?" Ramsey immediately asked.
"The NR-1A file was passed to Malone on the Zugspitze, as planned, but then all hell broke loose on the cable ride down."
He listened to Hovey's explanation of what happened, then asked, "Where's Malone?"
"The GPS on his rental car has him all over the place. At his hotel for a while, then off to a place called Ettal Monastery. It's about nine miles north of Garmisch. Last report had him on the road back toward Garmisch."
They'd wisely tagged Malone's car, which allowed the luxury of satellite monitoring. He sat at his desk. "What of Wilkerson?"
"The SOB thinks he's smart as hell," Hovey said. "He loosely shadowed Malone, waited in Garmisch awhile, then drove to Fussen and met with some bookstore owner. He had two helpers in a car outside. They carted off boxes."
"He gets under your skin, doesn't he?"
"He's far more trouble than he's worth. We need to cut him loose."
He'd sensed a certain distaste before. "Where'd you two cross paths?"
"NATO headquarters. He almost cost me my captain's bars. Luckily my commanding officer hated the ass-kissing bastard, too."
He had no time for petty jealousy. "Do we know what Wilkerson is doing now?"
"Probably deciding who can help him more. Us or them."
When he'd learned that Stephanie Nelle had acquired the court of inquiry report on NR-1A and its intended destination, he'd immediately sent freelancers to the Zugspitze, intentionally not informing Wilkerson of their presence. His Berlin station chief thought he was the only asset on the ground and had been instructed to keep a loose eye on Malone and report back. "Did Wilkerson call in?"
Hovey shook his head. "Not a word."
His intercom buzzed and he listened as his secretary told him that the White House was on the line. He dismissed Hovey and lifted the phone.
"We have a problem," Diane McCoy said.
"How do we have a problem?"
"Edwin Davis is loose."
"The president can't rein him in?"
"Not if he doesn't want to."
"You sense that?"
"I managed to get Daniels to talk to him, but all he did was listen to some rant about Antarctica, then said 'have a nice day' and hung up."
He asked for details and she explained what had happened. Then he asked, "Our inquiry about Zachary Alexander's file meant nothing to the president?"
"Apparently not."
"Perhaps we need to increase the pressure." Which was precisely why he'd dispatched Charlie Smith.
"Davis has hitched his wagon to Stephanie Nelle."
"She's a lightweight."
