His father had been right. Can't trust none of them. Can't trust none of them. Especially one who'd risen to become an admiral in the US Navy and the head of the Office of Naval Intelligence. Especially one who'd risen to become an admiral in the US Navy and the head of the Office of Naval Intelligence.

But what choice did he have? His road to the admiralty pa.s.sed straight through Langford Ramsey.

He glanced at his watch. A Toyota coupe eased down the street and parked two businesses away from the bookshop. A side window descended and the driver motioned.

He slipped on a pair of leather gloves, then approached the bookshop's front door. A light rap and the proprietor unlatched the lock. The tinkle of a bell announced his presence as he entered the store.

"Guten abend, Martin," he said to a squat, overweight man with a bushy black mustache. Martin," he said to a squat, overweight man with a bushy black mustache.

"Good to see you again," the man said in German.

The proprietor wore the same bow tie and cloth suspenders he'd worn weeks ago when they'd first met. His shop was an eclectic mixture of old and new, with an emphasis on the occult, and he had a reputation as a discreet broker.

"I trust your workday has gone well?" Wilkerson asked.

"Actually, the day has been slow. Few customers, but with the snow and the Christmas market tonight, people's minds are not on books." Martin closed the door and twisted the lock.

"Then perhaps I can change your luck. Time to conclude our business."

For the past three months this German had acted as a conduit, acquiring a variety of rare books and papers from differing sources, all on the same subject and, hopefully, unnoticed by anyone.

He followed the man through a ragged curtain into the back of the shop. During his first visit, he'd learned that the building had once, in the early twentieth century, housed a bank. Left over was a vault, and Wilkerson watched while the German spun the dial, released the tumblers, then eased open a heavy iron door.

Martin entered and yanked the chain on a bare bulb. "I've been toiling with this most of the day."

Boxes were stacked in the center. Wilkerson examined the contents of the top one. Copies of Germanien, Germanien, an archaeological and anthropological monthly published by the n.a.z.is in the 1930s. Another box held leather-bound volumes t.i.tled an archaeological and anthropological monthly published by the n.a.z.is in the 1930s. Another box held leather-bound volumes t.i.tled The Research and Educational Society, The Ahnenerbe: Evolution, Essence, Effect. The Research and Educational Society, The Ahnenerbe: Evolution, Essence, Effect.

"Those were presented to Adolf Hitler by Heinrech Himmler on Hitler's fiftieth birthday," Martin said. "Quite a coup to find them. And relatively inexpensive, too."

The rest of the boxes held more journals, correspondence, treatises, and papers, from before, during, and after the war.

"I was lucky to find sellers who wanted cash. They are becoming harder and harder to locate. Which brings us to my payment."

Wilkerson retrieved an envelope from inside his coat and handed it to the man. "Ten thousand euros, as agreed."

The German thumbed through the bills, clearly pleased.

They left the vault and walked back toward the front of the store.

Martin arrived at the curtain first and suddenly spun around, a gun pointed straight at Wilkerson. "I'm not an amateur. But whoever you work for must take me for one."

He tried to wipe the confusion from his face.

"Those men outside. Why are they here?"

"To help me."

"I did as you asked, bought what you wanted, and left no trail to you."

"Then you have nothing to worry about. I came solely for the boxes."

Martin motioned with the envelope. "Is it the money?"

He shrugged. "I wouldn't think so."

"Tell whoever is funding this purchase that they should leave me alone."

"How do you know I'm not funding it?"

Martin studied him. "Somebody is using you. Or worse, you're whoring yourself. You're lucky I don't shoot you."

"Why don't you?"

"No need for me to waste a bullet. You're no threat. But tell your benefactor to leave me be. Now take your boxes and go."

"I'll need some help."

Martin shook his head. "Those two stay in the car. You carry them out yourself. But know this. One trick and I'll shoot you dead."

FOURTEEN.

ETTAL MONASTERY.

DOROTHEA L LINDAUER STARED AT THE l.u.s.tROUS BLUE-GRAY stones supposedly carted here by her grandfather from Antarctica. Through the years she'd rarely visited the abbey. These obsessions had meant little to her. And as she caressed the rough surface, her fingers tracing the strange letters that her grandfather and father had wrestled to understand, she was now sure. stones supposedly carted here by her grandfather from Antarctica. Through the years she'd rarely visited the abbey. These obsessions had meant little to her. And as she caressed the rough surface, her fingers tracing the strange letters that her grandfather and father had wrestled to understand, she was now sure.

Fools. Both of them.

Especially her grandfather.

Hermann Oberhauser had been born into an aristocratic family of reactionary politicians, pa.s.sionate in their beliefs, incompetent in doing much about them. He'd latched on to the anti-Polish movement that swept through Germany in the early 1930s, raising money to combat the hated Weimar Republic. As. .h.i.tler rose to power, Hermann acquired a publicity firm, sold editorial s.p.a.ce to the National Socialists at bargain rates, and aided the rise of the Brown s.h.i.+rts from terrorists to leaders. He then started a chain of newspapers and headed the German National People's Party, which eventually aligned itself with the n.a.z.is. He also sired three sons. Two never saw the end of the war, one dying in Russia, the other in France. Her father survived only because he was too young to fight. After the peace, her grandfather became one of the countless disappointed souls who'd made Hitler what he was and survived to endure the shame. He lost his newspapers, but luckily kept his factories, paper mills, and oil refinery, which were needed by the Allies, so his sins, if not forgiven, were conveniently forgotten.

Her grandfather also claimed an irrational pride in his Teutonic heritage. He was enraptured with German nationalism, concluding that Western civilization was on the verge of collapse and its only hope lay in recovering long-lost truths. As she'd told Malone, in the late 1930s he'd spotted strange symbols in the gables of Dutch farmhouses and came to believe that they, along with the rock art from Sweden and Norway, and the stones from Antarctica, were a type of Aryan hieroglyph.

The mother of all scripts.

The language of heaven.

Utter nonsense, but the n.a.z.is 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 members.h.i.+p. 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 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. 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 ash.o.r.e." 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 ash.o.r.e. Tell the captain."

"What do you mean?"

He shook his head again. "Their world. It is gone. I have to go ash.o.r.e."

She started to speak, to rea.s.sure 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 n.a.z.i, 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 a.s.sociate 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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.

WAs.h.i.+NGTON, DC.

3:20 PM.