Sara and Steven entered a smaller room where a wooden boat stood on the left, among some artificial reeds. An oil painting behind it showed a kind of jungle garden stretching into the distance.
“This boat comes from Ludwig the Second’s conservatory, which once stood on the roof of the Residence Palace in Munich,” explained Herr Huber, pointing to a few old photographs on the opposite wall. “Sad to say, the roofed winter garden was demolished soon after the king’s death. It was enormous, almost two hundred thirty feet long, and as tall as a church. There were palms in it, orange and banana trees, a grotto with stalactites, waterfalls, a hut thatched with reeds, and a small lake.” The steersman’s voice almost cracked with emotion. “Imagine such a refuge for our politicians today on the roof of the Reichstag in Berlin. They could walk at their leisure up there, debate, indulge in their dreams. Who knows, perhaps many of their decisions would be quite different.”
“Maybe hookah pipes and hashish ought to be distributed to the parliament?” Sara suggested. “The federal president invites you to a course in drumming and fire dancing.”
The leader of the Cowled Men briefly closed his eyes. “It hurts me to hear such sentiments from the mouth of Professor Liebermann’s niece,” he said. “Your uncle was a great romantic.”
“But not a romantic lunatic, that’s the difference.”
“Be that as it may,” Herr Huber said. “All I want to say to you both is this: Ludwig the Second was a genius, a shining light who has been dragged through the dirt for far too long. We cannot allow his reputation to be further sullied by the memoirs of some low-born lackey. So I am afraid I must insist on being allowed to see that diary before it becomes public property.”
“But what makes you think that Theodor Marot meant the king ill?” Steven asked. “I’ve read large parts of the diary. Marot was true to Ludwig to the end.”
“Obviously too true.” The steersman took off his pince-nez and began nervously cleaning the lenses. “There are rumors that Marot was, well . . . homosexual, and made advances to the king. Not that Ludwig would have fallen for such a thing. God forbid. However, certain protestations of love on Marot’s part could nonetheless cast a poor light on the king . . .”
“That’s ridiculous!” Steven exclaimed. He felt rising anger. “Theodor Marot wasn’t gay—Ludwig was. And you know it. You’re trying to falsify history. Can’t you just accept that your precious king was gay? Is it such a big deal?”
“I can only repeat myself,” Herr Huber said as his two assistants moved menacingly toward Sara and Steven. “The king’s honor must be defended by every means at our disposal. I will therefore ask you to hand me the book at once.” Suddenly the black pistol was back in his hand. “Don’t make me use force. The king was a pacifist, and I am really a pacifist, too. Up to a point.”
Now the two lieutenants were standing beside Sara and Steven. As one of them positioned himself threateningly in front of the art detective, the other reached swiftly for Steven’s rucksack.
“Hey, you can’t just . . .” Steven began, but the Cowled Man had already wrenched the rucksack from his grasp and threw it to his boss. Herr Huber worked frantically at the zipper, finally pulling it open. He triumphantly lifted the little wooden treasure chest.
“At last,” he whispered, his voice husky. “My dream becomes reality. After more than a hundred years, soon we will find out who . . .”
There was a faint pop, and the steersman’s voice died away midsentence. Astonished, he looked at a small red circle on the chest of his coat. A thin stream of blood flowed from it.
Herr Huber moaned and collapsed between his two lieutenants, his trembling hands still clutching the treasure chest.
A moment later the light went out, and the inside of the museum was suddenly dark as a grave.
Thick mist began rising from the floor.
24
LANCELOT WAS ANGRY. Very angry.
He had served in Iraq and in several African states, the names of which he had long ago forgotten. But this Bavarian job was becoming more and more complicated, with incalculable risks and an insane boss. He had already paid for it with one eye, and he had no intention of losing any other parts of his body, let alone his reason or his life.
Think of the Caribbean, think of the girls.
Directly after getting in touch with the Munich and New York control centers about that damn antiquarian bookseller, he had gone back on the trail. But at first it was as if the earth had opened and swallowed up both that little bitch and Steven Lukas after they reached Herrenchiemsee. When Lancelot had finally seen a light in the castle that evening, he had slipped in and, to his delight, had found the couple on the second floor. A fat old guy was with them, but he wouldn’t present any problems.