How many, in fact, became clear to Steven only when they made for one of the large parking lots in the valley. The narrow road between the two castles was lined with hotels, restaurants, souvenir shops, and overpriced snack bars. Along it surged a noisy crowd of Americans, Japanese, nouveaux riches Russians, and people of a dozen other nationalities on their way to the ticket office.
When they stopped in one of the last vacant and wildly expensive parking spots, Sara noisily drew in her breath. Steven stared through the windshield and could not help a nervous start. A police car with its engine running stood right by the kiosk at the entrance.
“Oh well,” said the bookseller, resigned. “They’ve found us. Now what?”
“What do you think?” Sara replied, defiantly. “We wait. So there’s a police car. No big deal. Maybe the nice officers want to visit Neuschwanstein. Or maybe they’re simply hungry. There, see for yourself.” She pointed to a kiosk not far away where a stout police officer stood with a curry sausage. Leisurely, the officer strolled back to the car where his colleague was waiting, looking bored and drumming out a rhythm of some kind on the instrument panel.
Relieved, Sara smiled. “What did I tell you? Nothing to worry about.”
Suddenly the stout policeman stared their way and stopped dead in the middle of the road. Steven felt as if he scrutinized them forever before he finally strode quickly toward them.
“Bloody hell,” he said. “He’s recognized us. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Right now that really would be the stupidest thing we could do,” said Zöller, speaking up from the back seat. “This is the time to keep calm. Just act bored. And Frau Lengfeld, you start the engine very slowly.”
Sara turned the key in the ignition, while Steven tried desperately to look like any other American tourist. They rolled gently past the stout officer, who went on walking straight ahead. In the rearview mirror, Steven saw him throw his paper napkin into a trash bin and call something to his colleague in the car. Shortly after, Sara’s Mini turned into a nearby parking lot, and the police officers did not reappear.
“Three cheers for German bureaucracy and the sanctity of the lunch break,” Sara said. “Half an hour later, and you can bet they would have checked up on us. Now, quick, let’s get lost in the crowd.” She grinned. “At least that shouldn’t be too difficult here.”
Steven squeezed out of the Mini and looked at the teeming mass of school classes, tourists, and shouting kids holding hands with their parents and obviously getting on their nerves. Horse-drawn carriages without a single vacant seat rattled along the road, and farther back a bus crammed as full as possible was trying to drive up to the castle.
“How we’re going to find a keyword to solve the puzzle in all this hustle and bustle is a mystery to me,” Sara said a few minutes later as they and Zöller were buying their tickets to the castle. “Sure you don’t know a night watchman here, too—someone who’d let us into the castle when it’s closed for the night?”
Sadly, the old man shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Security at Neuschwanstein was taken over by a new outfit recently. And even if I did, I don’t think that after what happened at Herrenchiemsee, any of my contacts would let us in.”
Before they entered, Steven went to one of the souvenir shops and bought himself a crooked Bavarian walking stick, a T-shirt with a castle motif printed on it, and a cheap Bavarian hat. He took his entrance ticket without a word and strode ahead in his new garb. “Not one word,” he said on seeing Zöller’s grin. “The sight of that fat cop just now was too much for me. At least no one will recognize me so easily in this ridiculous getup. Now, bus, period carriage, or on foot? Any preferences?”
The bookseller was about to change to the other side of the street when a white Maserati raced past him so close that he had to jump back.
“Bloody bastard!” he shouted at its driver. “This is Neuschwanstein, not the autobahn!”
The car suddenly stopped and reversed.
Wonderful, thought Steven. Not only are you wanted by the police, and there’s a lunatic trying to shoot you, but now you get some provincial in a Maserati trying to kill you in a fit of road rage.
The tinted driver’s window lowered, and so did Steven’s jaw.
“Hello, Mr. Landsdale. Is that folksy Bavarian costume for back home in Milwaukee?”
Luise Manstein gave him a friendly smile. She had pushed her sunglasses up into her short gray hair, and she wore a close-fitting pantsuit like the one she had worn on their meeting outside the Grotto of Venus at Linderhof.