She shook her head. ‘No, the reason you asked me about Ludwig and the Alpengarten auf dem Schachen makes sense. I wondered why you got upset when I told you the botanical garden was opened in the 1900s. Seriously, think of all the time you would have saved if you had just come clean with me from the very beginning.’
Payne countered. ‘Probably less time than you’ve wasted with all your gloating. We get it: you’re perceptive. Now use your ability for good, not evil. Tell us what the riddle means.’
She smiled at Payne, enjoying their banter. They had been going at it since they had met on Schachen, verbally jousting about everything. After a while, she knew something was bound to happen. Either they would get into a huge fight, or they would rip each other’s clothes off. She wasn’t sure which, although she hoped for the latter. It sounded a lot more fun.
‘Let me ask you a question,’ she said.
‘What now?’ Payne grumbled.
She pointed at Ulster. ‘Actually, I was talking to him.’
‘Oh,’ Payne said.
Ulster responded. ‘What is it, my dear?’
‘Your grandfather, he wrote these clues in his journal?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘How was his handwriting?’
‘His handwriting?’ Ulster asked, confused.
‘Was it easy to read, or were some of his words open to interpretation?’
‘For the most part, his penmanship was exquisite. Why do you ask?’
‘I was wondering how certain you were about the word
gartenhaus
. Could you have misread that particular term?’
The leather-bound journal was sitting on the desk in front of him. Ulster flipped to the appropriate page and studied the word. ‘It says
gartenhaus
. Clear as day.’
‘That’s disappointing,’ she sighed.
‘Why is that?’ Payne wondered.
‘I was hoping it said something else. If it did, I’d know the answer to the riddle.’
‘Really?’ Jones asked. ‘What word were you hoping for?’
‘
Gartenlaube
. I wanted it to say
gartenlaube
.’
‘What does that mean in English?’
She looked at Jones. ‘It means garden arbour.’
‘That’s pretty close to garden house. Could it be that anyway?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’
Payne looked at Ulster, who was searching the pages of the journal for additional clues. ‘Petr, after all the grief I’ve given you over the years about your long-winded stories, I can’t believe I’m about to say this. Earlier today, I think I cut you off a little too early.’
Ulster relished the moment. ‘Oh? Which time was that? Was it when we entered the bunker? Or when we opened the first crate? Or when we were talking about the black swan?’
Payne shook his head. ‘None of those.’
‘Then which instance are you referring to?’
‘When we first landed on Schachen, you started telling
DJ
and I about the original language of the riddle. We begged you to skip the background information about the journal because we wanted to know the actual riddle. Do you remember that?’
‘I do, indeed.’
Payne continued. ‘I could be wrong, but didn’t you say something about the original version of the riddle being written in an ancient language that needed to be translated?’
‘Actually,’ Ulster said, ‘it wasn’t an ancient language at all. It was merely an older dialect, known as Austro-Bavarian. My grandfather then translated the riddle into Austrian German, which was the language he had spoken prior to moving to Switzerland. Once he took residence here in Kusendorf, he started speaking Italian, which is the unofficial language of the canton of Ticino. Growing up, I found it strange since Kusendorf is such a German-sounding name. However, through some research of my own, I learned that this town was actually founded by a man with Polish ancestry, who had the surname of Kuz—’
‘Petr!’ Payne shouted. ‘This is why we cut you off. Although everything you said about Kusendorf was riveting, it has nothing to do with our current conversation. Don’t you see that?’
Ulster nodded. ‘I do now.’
Payne took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. ‘If it’s okay with you, I’d like to remain focused on your grandfather’s journal.’
‘What about it?’ he asked.
‘When your grandfather translated the riddle, could he have slightly altered the original meaning when he used Austrian-German words?’
Ulster nodded again. ‘It happens all the time - especially with unusual words or highly specific terms. Sometimes there isn’t a perfect word in the new language, so a translator is forced to choose the closest possible replacement.’
Heidi spoke up. ‘Could
gartenhaus
have been substituted for
gartenlaube
?’
‘I don’t see why not. Although their definitions are slightly different, their basic structures are remarkably similar, right down to the “au” in the last syllable.’
‘So it’s possible?’
‘Yes, my dear, it’s possible.’
Heidi broke into a wide grin. ‘If that’s the case, I know the answer to the riddle. I know where a swan goes on his journey home.’
During the two-hour car ride from his business meetings in Hamburg to his residence in Berlin, Hans Mueller reflected on the early-morning phone call he had received from Max Krueger, a devoted employee who wasn’t known for hyperbole. Krueger had seemed truly excited about the appearance of Petr Ulster in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, yet several hours had passed without an update of any kind. With the day winding down, Mueller was curious.
From the back seat of his custom-built Mercedes limousine, Mueller flipped a switch that lowered the soundproofed partition in front of him. ‘Have you heard from Krueger?’
His eager assistant responded. ‘No, sir, I haven’t. But I assembled the information you requested on the Ulster Archives. Shall I send it to your laptop?’
Mueller nodded. ‘Then give Krueger a call. I’d love to know what’s going on down there. Garmisch isn’t known for excitement - unless you’re a skier.’
The assistant laughed. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll call at once. Would you like to speak to him?’
‘Only if it’s worth my time.’
‘I’ll let you know.’
Mueller nodded and flipped the switch to raise the partition. It was a third of the way up when he heard the deep voice of his muscular chauffeur, a man named Bosch, who spoke approximately once a week. If he had something to say, it was bound to be important. Mueller stared at his driver in the rear-view mirror. ‘What’s wrong?’
Bosch looked back at him. ‘Something happened in Garmisch.’
Mueller lowered the partition. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I was listening to the news while you were in your meeting. There was a shootout in Garmisch.’
‘A shootout? What kind of shootout?’
Bosch looked at him. ‘A bad one.’
‘How bad?’
‘Multiple gunmen, several deaths.’
‘In
Garmisch
? Are you sure?’
‘I’m certain. Someone was killed at the ski stadium.’
‘And the others?’
‘In the mountains.’
Mueller rubbed his chin in thought. According to Krueger, choppers had been flying in and out of Garmisch-Partenkirchen for the past week and had been landing in a field near the base of Zugspitze. One of the choppers, registered to the Ulster Archives, had arrived there early that morning, and now this? In Mueller’s mind, it couldn’t be a coincidence - not in a town where the last shootout had occurred in World War Two.
His assistant turned around. He was holding an encrypted satellite phone against his ear. ‘Sir, it went straight to voicemail. Shall I leave a message for Krueger?’
Mueller shook his head. ‘No.’
He quickly hung up. ‘Now what, sir?’
‘Who do we know in Garmisch?’
‘Krueger is our lead man. I wouldn’t trust anyone else.’
‘What about the police? Who’s our local contact?’
The assistant tried to come up with a name but couldn’t due to the complex structure of the German police. Every state in Germany was responsible for operating its own force, which was then divided into a number of regional police authorities. The Bavarian State Police, known as the
Bayerische Polizei
, had ten such subdivisions. Krueger had many contacts within the
Polizeiprasidium Munchen
, the force that protected the city of Munich, but Krueger’s organization did so little business in Garmisch-Partenkirchen that his assistant wasn’t even sure which regional authority was in charge of that section of Bavaria.
‘I don’t think we have a contact in Garmisch. Do you have a suggestion?’
‘Call Munich. With so many dead, they might get involved.’
‘What about the
SEK
, sir?’ It was an abbreviation for the
Spezialeinsatzkommando
, a special response team that handled unusual cases, such as hostage situations and violent crimes. ‘I know they have a unit assigned to the Alps. Perhaps they’re in charge of the mountains.’
Mueller shrugged. He honestly didn’t know. Most of his deals happened in major cities, not in the rugged terrain near the Austrian border. ‘Call whoever you want! Just find out what happened in Garmisch. And track down Krueger. I want to speak to him at once!’
He punctuated his statement by raising the partition, sealing himself off from the commotion that was sure to follow in the front seat. While his assistant tracked down names and made a series of phone calls to their contacts all over Germany, Mueller could focus on the heart of the matter: Who was Petr Ulster, and what was he doing in Garmisch-Partenkirchen?
Although Mueller was familiar with the Ulster name, he didn’t grasp the scope of the Ulster Archives until he viewed the file that had been sent to his laptop. The comprehensive dossier included videos about its history, newspaper articles on its collections and thousands of pictures of its most famous treasures. Mueller had never cared much about art or artefacts, but that changed when he read the estimated value of the archives was more than a billion dollars. In his opinion, there was no way a man of Ulster’s wealth (or weight) would fly to the nether regions of Bavaria to hike up a mountain unless he had found something extraordinary.
The question was, what?
Mueller spent the next fifteen minutes searching the internet, trying to figure out what Ulster could have discovered that would have been worth his time. Historically speaking, there were a few possibilities in that part of Germany. Partenkirchen originated as the Roman town of Parthanum. It had been founded on the trade route from Rome to Augsburg and was first mentioned in
AD
257. Its main street, Ludwigstrasse, followed the original Roman road. More than a millennium later, the town flourished as a way station on a trade route to the Orient.
Perhaps he had located an old settlement? Or a ruin from Ancient Rome?
Or maybe something more recent, like relics from Castle Werdenfels?
Built in 1219 by Otto the Second, Count of Andechs, the once mighty castle was now a ruin. Originally intended to guard a local military road, Werdenfels - which means ‘defence of the rock’ - was turned into a palace of horrors when crop failures led to an outburst of witch hysteria. During the sixteenth century, the castle was used to hold, try and execute those accused of witchcraft. Exact numbers aren’t known, but hundreds were supposedly burned at the stake or garrotted. By the mid-1700s, the castle was such an object of superstitious horror that most of it was torn down to prevent devil worship and occult practices.
Then again, things of that nature seemed to be beneath the lofty standards of the Ulster Archives - unless Ulster was trying to impress the
Twilight
crowd.
While searching for other possibilities, Mueller heard a beep on the car’s intercom system. It meant someone in the front seat wanted to talk. He pushed the button to reply. ‘What is it?’
‘I have news about Krueger.’
Mueller lowered the partition. ‘Yes?’
His assistant spoke. ‘One of our police contacts in Munich just called. So far the authorities in Garmisch-Partenkirchen have identified two of the shooting victims. Neither one was Krueger, but both have significance to us.’
‘In what sense?’
‘One of the men was
connected
to Krueger.’
‘How so?’
‘He was listed as a known associate.’
‘Part of his local crew?’
The assistant shook his head. ‘They served together in the Tenth Armoured Division. When the victim - his name was Krause - was accused of armed robbery, Krueger gave him an alibi. The cops found it suspicious and noted it in their files.’
‘This Krause, where was he found?’
‘He was shot at the ski stadium.’
‘Not on the mountain?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Any witnesses?’