“Where are we going?”
Luise laughed. “To the fourth castle, of course. You yourself were kind enough to find out the hiding place for me. Don’t you remember the solution to the puzzle?” She chanted Marot’s words like a strange kind of melody.
“In the king’s fourth castle a scion shows the dearest of his treasures. The irony behind that is truly too delicious.”
“But Ludwig built only three castles,” Steven wearily objected. “There was never any talk of a fourth.”
The industrialist smiled broadly. “You’re right, Cousin. Only three castles were built. However, a fourth was planned. Your expert friend Albert Zöller could have told you that, I’m sure. Ah, there it is.”
She wiped condensation off the pane beside her, and through a small hole Steven looked down on a wooded mountain, one of the foothills of the Alps. Its precipitous peak, maybe some three hundred or more feet high, was treeless, and on its rocks he saw a dilapidated ruin that must once, ages ago, have been a castle.
Suddenly a memory surfaced in Steven’s head. He thought of the model castle in the museum at Herrenchiemsee. The hill on which it stood had looked very like the mountain below him. At the time, Sara had even read the information about the planned project. What had the place been called . . .
“Falkenstein Castle! An ideal hiding place. I should have known.” Luise’s voice brought him back to reality. “Ludwig’s dream of a castle fit for a true king. And incidentally, at the highest altitude of any castle in Germany.” She looked reverently down at the ruin. A modern complex of buildings lay at its foot.
“The castle that stood here in the Middle Ages was a powerful signal from Count Meinhard of the Tyrol, who wanted to incorporate the land around Füssen with his domains,” the industrialist went on. “As an inhabited fortress, however, its situation was too high and inhospitable, and so it fell into ruin. Ludwig wanted to build his tomb here, but he died before the building work really began. Marot couldn’t have chosen a better place.”
“And that new building down there?” Steven asked, pointing out of the window. “That can’t be part of the castle.”
Luise smiled broadly. “An elegant little luxury hotel that I acquired some time ago, and to which I have added some . . . well, extensions. If I’d known that Ludwig’s statutory declaration was only a few yards away . . .” Laughing, she shook her head.
The helicopter was now losing height, and it came down on the parking lot outside the hotel. In spite of the noise, the hotel windows were dark, and there was no one in sight.
“Fortunately, I have been using the off-season to do some renovations,” Luise said as the rotor blades slowed. “The hotel is closed. So we’re all alone up here.”
She took the little treasure chest off one of the back seats, put it in a nylon bag that she had brought with her, and opened the door. Icy cold mountain air blew into the interior of the helicopter.
“Come on, Steven,” Luise said. “Time to claim our inheritance.”
41
LANCELOT STOOD IN THE middle of the Marie Bridge with his semiautomatic Glock 17 in one hand and an Uzi in the other. He grinned at Sara as the footsteps of Steven, Luise, and the other men slowly died away in the wood.
“Just the two of us, girlie,” he said at last. “Looks like it’s time for the showdown.”
The giant hummed a tune, and it took Sara some time to work out that it was supposed to be Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge over Troubled Water.” Lancelot put his two guns down on the ground in front of him and came toward Sara, still humming, his huge hands raised. He looked like the crazed priest of some ancient, forgotten deity.
Keep your head clear, she thought. This guy is a sadist pumped full of testosterone, a fit fighting machine, a murderous mercenary, but apart from that, he’s a perfectly normal human being. And human beings make mistakes.
“‘When darkness comes,’” sang Lancelot in his deep growling bass, “‘and pain is all around . . .’” He smiled broadly. “I don’t need a gun for what comes next. I’ll be doing it by hand. And tomorrow morning I’m booking the flight that will take me to my yacht in the Caribbean. Too bad you won’t be able to come, too.”
Sara stood in the middle of the bridge, which vibrated slightly under Lancelot’s footsteps. The giant was only a few feet away. She looked frantically around, trying to calculate her chances of flight. They were very few. The situation was, to put it mildly, hopeless.
If I turn around and run for the forest on the other side of the gorge, he’ll pick up his Uzi and shoot me. If I stay where I am, he’ll throw me off the bridge. If I fight, he’ll throttle me. Which would hurt less?