Free The Charlemagne Pursuit by Steve Berry Page A

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, an archaeological and anthropological monthly published by the Nazis in the 1930s. Another box held leather-bound volumes titled 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
     
    D OROTHEA L INDAUER STARED AT THE LUSTROUS 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.
    Fools. Both of them.
    Especially her grandfather.
    Hermann Oberhauser had been born into an aristocratic family of reactionary politicians, passionate 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