assailant entered the room, picking his way over the debris.
A bullet ricocheted off the floor just ahead of him.
He scampered behind more rubble as another bullet searched for him. He was running out of options. The gun lay too far away. Cold wind parched his face. The flashlight beam found him.
Damn. He cursed himself, then Langford Ramsey.
A gun blast erupted.
The flashlight beam jiggled, then its rays scattered in all directions.
A body thudded to the floor.
Then silence.
He pushed himself up and spied a darkened form—tall, shapely, feminine—standing in the kitchen doorway, the outline of a shotgun in her arms.
“Are you all right?” Dorothea Lindauer asked.
“Nice shot.”
“I saw you were having trouble.”
He walked over to Lindauer and stared at her through the darkness.
“I assume this resolves all doubts you might have about your Admiral Ramsey and his intentions?” she asked.
He nodded. “From now on we’ll do this your way.”
NINETEEN
M ALONE SHOOK HIS HEAD. T WINS? H E CLOSED THE DOOR. “I JUST met your sister. I wondered why she let me go so easily. You two just couldn’t speak to me together?”
Christl Falk shook her head. “We don’t speak much.”
Now he was puzzled. “Yet you’re obviously working together.”
“No, we’re not.” Her English, unlike her sister’s, contained no hint of German.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“She baited you today. Drew you in. I was wondering why. I planned to speak with you when you came down from the summit, but thought better after what happened.”
“You saw?”
She nodded. “Then I followed you here.”
What the hell had he stumbled into?
“I had nothing to do with what happened,” she made clear.
“Except knowing about it, in advance.”
“I only knew that you’d be there. Nothing else.”
He decided to get to the point. “You want to know about your father, too?”
“I do.”
He sat on the bed and allowed his gaze to dart to the far side of the room and the built-in wooden seat beneath the windows, where he’d been talking to Stephanie when he’d spotted the woman from the cable car. The report on Blazek still lay where he left it. He wondered if his visitor had peeked.
Christl Falk had made herself comfortable in one of the chairs. She wore a long-sleeved denim shirt and pleated khaki pants, both of which flattered her obvious contours. These two beautiful women, nearly identical in appearance, save for differing hairstyles—hers was shoulder-length, brushed smooth, falling free—seemed quite varied in personality. Where Dorothea Lindauer had conveyed pride and privilege, Christl Falk telegraphed struggle.
“Did Dorothea tell you about Grandfather?”
“I got a synopsis.”
“He did work for the Nazis, heading up the Ahnenerbe.”
“Such a noble endeavor.”
She seemed to catch his sarcasm. “I agree. It was nothing more than a research institute to manufacture archaeological evidence for political purposes. Himmler believed Germany’s ancestors evolved far off, where they’d been some sort of master race. Then that supposed Aryan blood migrated to various parts of the world. So he created the Ahnenerbe—a mix of adventurers, mystics, and scholars—and set out to find those Aryans while eradicating everyone else.”
“Which one was your grandfather?”
She looked puzzled.
“Adventurer, mystic, or scholar?”
“All three, actually.”
“But he apparently was a politician, too. He headed the thing, so he surely knew the Ahnenerbe’s true mission.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Grandfather only believed in the concept of a mythical Aryan race. Himmler manipulated his obsession into a tool for ethnic cleansing.”
“That rationalization was used at the Nürnberg trials, after the war, with no success.”
“Believe what you want, it’s not important to why I’m here.”
“Which I’ve been waiting—rather patiently, I might add—for you to explain.”
She
A bullet ricocheted off the floor just ahead of him.
He scampered behind more rubble as another bullet searched for him. He was running out of options. The gun lay too far away. Cold wind parched his face. The flashlight beam found him.
Damn. He cursed himself, then Langford Ramsey.
A gun blast erupted.
The flashlight beam jiggled, then its rays scattered in all directions.
A body thudded to the floor.
Then silence.
He pushed himself up and spied a darkened form—tall, shapely, feminine—standing in the kitchen doorway, the outline of a shotgun in her arms.
“Are you all right?” Dorothea Lindauer asked.
“Nice shot.”
“I saw you were having trouble.”
He walked over to Lindauer and stared at her through the darkness.
“I assume this resolves all doubts you might have about your Admiral Ramsey and his intentions?” she asked.
He nodded. “From now on we’ll do this your way.”
NINETEEN
M ALONE SHOOK HIS HEAD. T WINS? H E CLOSED THE DOOR. “I JUST met your sister. I wondered why she let me go so easily. You two just couldn’t speak to me together?”
Christl Falk shook her head. “We don’t speak much.”
Now he was puzzled. “Yet you’re obviously working together.”
“No, we’re not.” Her English, unlike her sister’s, contained no hint of German.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“She baited you today. Drew you in. I was wondering why. I planned to speak with you when you came down from the summit, but thought better after what happened.”
“You saw?”
She nodded. “Then I followed you here.”
What the hell had he stumbled into?
“I had nothing to do with what happened,” she made clear.
“Except knowing about it, in advance.”
“I only knew that you’d be there. Nothing else.”
He decided to get to the point. “You want to know about your father, too?”
“I do.”
He sat on the bed and allowed his gaze to dart to the far side of the room and the built-in wooden seat beneath the windows, where he’d been talking to Stephanie when he’d spotted the woman from the cable car. The report on Blazek still lay where he left it. He wondered if his visitor had peeked.
Christl Falk had made herself comfortable in one of the chairs. She wore a long-sleeved denim shirt and pleated khaki pants, both of which flattered her obvious contours. These two beautiful women, nearly identical in appearance, save for differing hairstyles—hers was shoulder-length, brushed smooth, falling free—seemed quite varied in personality. Where Dorothea Lindauer had conveyed pride and privilege, Christl Falk telegraphed struggle.
“Did Dorothea tell you about Grandfather?”
“I got a synopsis.”
“He did work for the Nazis, heading up the Ahnenerbe.”
“Such a noble endeavor.”
She seemed to catch his sarcasm. “I agree. It was nothing more than a research institute to manufacture archaeological evidence for political purposes. Himmler believed Germany’s ancestors evolved far off, where they’d been some sort of master race. Then that supposed Aryan blood migrated to various parts of the world. So he created the Ahnenerbe—a mix of adventurers, mystics, and scholars—and set out to find those Aryans while eradicating everyone else.”
“Which one was your grandfather?”
She looked puzzled.
“Adventurer, mystic, or scholar?”
“All three, actually.”
“But he apparently was a politician, too. He headed the thing, so he surely knew the Ahnenerbe’s true mission.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Grandfather only believed in the concept of a mythical Aryan race. Himmler manipulated his obsession into a tool for ethnic cleansing.”
“That rationalization was used at the Nürnberg trials, after the war, with no success.”
“Believe what you want, it’s not important to why I’m here.”
“Which I’ve been waiting—rather patiently, I might add—for you to explain.”
She
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