The Charlemagne Pursuit

TWENTY-FIVE

MALONE SURVEYED THE CASTLE THROUGH THE WINDSHIELD, THE ponderous edifice clinging to a sharply rising slope. Mullioned, dormer, and graceful oriel windows shone to the night. Arc lights cast the exterior walls with a mellow medieval beauty. Something Luther once said about another German citadel flashed through his mind. A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing.

He was driving his rental car, Christl Falk in the passenger seat. They'd left Ettal Monastery in a hurry and plunged deep into the frozen Bavarian woods, following a forlorn highway devoid of traffic. Finally, after a forty-minute ride, the castle appeared and he drove them inside, parking in a courtyard. Above, dotting an ink-blue sky, shone a brilliance of sparkling stars.

"This is our home," Christl said as they exited. "The Oberhauser estate. Reichshoffen."

"Hope and empire," he translated. "Interesting name."

"Our family motto. We've occupied this hilltop for over seven hundred years."

He surveyed the scene of order, meticulous in arrangement, neutral in color, broken only by stains of snow that oozed from the ancient stone.

She turned away and he caught her wrist. Beautiful women were difficult, and this stranger was indeed beautiful. Even worse, she was playing him and he knew it.

"Why is your name Falk and not Oberhauser?" he asked, trying to throw her off balance.

Her eyes dropped to her arm. He released his grip.

"A marriage that was a mistake."

"Your sister. Lindauer. Still married?"

"She is, though I can't say it's much of one. Werner likes her money and she likes being married. Gives her an excuse for why her lovers can never be more."

"You going to tell me why you two don't get along?"

She smiled, which only magnified her allure. "That depends on whether you agree to help."

"You know why I'm here."

"Your father. It's why I'm here, too."

He doubted that but decided to quit stalling. "Then let's see what's so important."

They entered through an arched doorway. His attention was drawn to a huge tapestry that draped the far wall. Another odd drawing, this one stitched in gold upon a deep maroon-and-navy background.

She noticed his interest. "Our family crest."

He studied the image. A crown poised over an iconic drawing of an animal-perhaps a dog or cat, hard to say-gripping what looked like a rodent in its mouth. "What does it mean?"

"I've never received a good explanation. But one of our ancestors liked it, so he had the tapestry sewn and hung there."

Outside he heard the unmuffled roar of an engine gunning into the courtyard. He stared out through the open doorway and saw a man emerge from a Mercedes coupe with an automatic weapon.

He recognized the face.

The same one from his room, earlier, at the Posthotel.

What the hell?

The man leveled the gun.

He yanked Christl back as high-velocity rounds whizzed through the doorway and obliterated a table abutting the far wall. Glass shattered from an adjacent floor clock. They rushed forward, Christl leading the way. More bullets strafed the wall behind him.

He gripped the gun from the cable car as they turned a corner and bolted down a short corridor that emptied into a grand hall.

He quickly spied the surroundings and saw a quadrangular-shaped room adorned with colonnades that rose on four sides, long galleries above and beneath. At the far end, illuminated by weak incandescent fixtures, hung the symbol of the former German Empire-a black, red, and gold banner emblazoned with an eagle. The black yaw of a stone fireplace, large enough for several people to stand inside, opened beneath it.

"Split up," she said. "You go up."

Before he could object, she rushed ahead into the darkness.

He spotted a staircase that led up to the second-floor gallery and moved lightly toward the first step. Blackness numbed his eyes. Niches were everywhere, dark voids where, he worried, more ill-disposed retainers could lie in wait.

He crept up the stairs and entered the upper gallery, embracing the darkness, hovering a couple of yards away from the balustrade. A shadow entered the hall below, backlit by light slanting in from the corridor beyond. Eighteen chairs lined a massive dining table. Their gilded backs stood rigid, like soldiers in a line, except for two, which Christl had apparently crawled beneath since she was nowhere to be seen.

A laugh permeated the stillness. "You're dead, Malone."

Fascinating. The man knew his name.

"Come and get me," he called out, knowing the hall would generate an echo and make it impossible to pinpoint his location.

He saw the man probe the darkness, surveying the arches, noticing a tiled stove in one corner, the massive table, and a brass chandelier that loomed over it all.

Malone fired below.

The bullet missed.

Footsteps rushed toward the stairway.

Malone darted ahead, turned the corner, and slowed as he found the opposite gallery. No footsteps could be heard from behind, but the gunman was definitely there.

He stared down at the table. Two chairs remained out of place. Another toppled back and crashed to the floor, sending a thud resounding through the hall.

A gunshot volley, from across the upper gallery, rained down and obliterated the tabletop. Luckily the thick wood handled the assault. Malone fired across the gallery to where the muzzle flashes had appeared. Rounds now came his way, ricocheting off stone behind him.

His eyes searched the darkness, trying to see where the assailant might be. He'd tried to divert attention by calling out, but Christl Falk, whether intentionally or not, had ruined that effort. Behind him, more black niches lined the wall. Ahead was equally bleak. He caught movement on the opposite side-a form, heading his way. He clung to the darkness, crouched and crept forward, turning left to traverse the hall's short side.

What was happening? This man had come for him.

Christl suddenly appeared below in the center of the hall, standing in the weak light.

Malone did not reveal his presence. Instead, he settled into the shadows, hugged one of the arches, and peered around its edge.

"Show yourself," Christl called out.

No reply.

Malone abandoned his position and moved faster, trying to double back behind the gunman.

"Look, I'm walking away. If you want to stop me, you know what you're going to have to do."

"Not smart," a man said.

Malone stopped at another corner. Ahead, halfway down the gallery, the attacker stood, facing away. Malone cast a quick glance downward and saw that Christl was still there.

A cold excitement steadied his nerve.

The shadow before him raised his weapon.

"Where is he?" the man asked her. But she did not reply. "Malone, show yourself or she's dead."

Malone crept forward, gun level, and said, "I'm right here."

The man's gun stayed angled downward. "I can still kill Frau Lindauer," he calmly said.

Malone caught the error but made clear, "I'll shoot you long before you can pull that trigger."

The man seemed to consider his dilemma and turned slowly toward Malone. Then his movements accelerated as he tried to swing the assault rifle around, pulling the trigger at the same time. Bullets pinged through the hall. Malone was about to fire when another retort banged off the walls.

The man's head wrenched back as he stopped firing.

His body flew away from the railing.

Legs teetered, off balance.

A cry, quick and startled, strangled into silence as the gunman collapsed to the floor.

Malone lowered his weapon.

The top of the man's skull was gone.

He approached the railing.

Below, on one side of Christl Falk stood a tall, thin man with a rifle pointed upward. On the other side was an elderly woman who said to him, "We appreciate the distraction, Herr Malone."

"It wasn't necessary to shoot him."

The old woman motioned and the other man lowered his rifle.

"I thought it was," she said.