Eagle ascending, p.10
Eagle Ascending, page 10
“And third?” Krueger asked.
“He’s a lot of fun! We met back when we were both on faculty at the Smithsonian.”
“Ah, so you met over organic hummus in some beige seminar room, right?” Krueger asked.
“Try bungee jumping in the Shenandoah Valley,” Brandt spat as she slid into a soft, leather seat inside the chopper. Grimm was already opening a bottle of champagne as his helicopter left the pad, the pilot heading toward the sullen clouds above. He handed his guests each a glass, along with a set of headphones so they could continue their conversation above the din of the engine.
“So,” the young professor said, “can I have some answers now, please? Seldom would I choose to interrupt a holiday in Ibiza, but your promise of adventure stirred my curiosity.”
“Trust me, pal,” Krueger said, “if it’s adventure stories you like, you’re gonna love this.”
The cop sipped his champagne with incurious gusto. It seemed odd to quaff fine wine hours after a gruesome assault, but then, everything had seemed odd since the New York blast.
GRIMM’S CHOPPER LANDED on a bare airfield a few miles outside the city. Surrounded by wet fens and scrubland, it looked like a bleak and unfriendly land. But as the helicopter touched the greasy tarmac, Krueger caught site of a gleaming Lear jet idling on the runway. It was, he hoped, his ticket out of Germany.
“Fascinating,” Grimm said, marveling at the papers Krueger had presented him with to support his ludicrous story. “Absolutely fascinating.”
“So what do you think?” Brandt asked, but Grimm ignored her and kept repeating the word ‘fascinating’ as if it were a holy rite.
The three companions exited the chopper, and Krueger watched as the access door of the Lear swung open seductively. A flight attendant, with teeth like huge white gravestones, shimmied down the stairs and smiled.
“Are we ready to depart, Barnaby?” Brandt asked, but found her friend still lost in the papers. His mind, finely trained at Harrow, Cambridge, and Berkeley, was adept at tackling complex riddles, but his singular focus often left him forgetting other, more mundane, matters.
“Certainly,” he said absently, as he came upon the blank sheet of paper, the one Trudy Krueger claimed was the last she ever received from her father. “And what is this?” Grimm asked.
Krueger explained the story, and as he did so Grimm shuffled toward the side of the runway, where a member of the ground crew was warming himself next to a fire roaring in an iron brazier.
“Fascinating,” Grimm said, with a fey smile on his face. Brandt looked at Krueger to share her suspicion, and as she did so, the professor lowered the paper and placed it above the flames.
“Are you crazy?” Krueger yelled, charging forward and grabbing the paper as the flames began to lick it. Grimm did not resist and allowed the tall cop to take it from his hands.
“You nearly burned the damned thing!” Brandt said.
“Not quite,” Grimm said, pointing to the document. Krueger looked down and saw, to his amazement, that the paper was no longer blank. It was covered in the writing of General Wolfgang Krueger.
-9-
MY DEAREST ELSA,
It is a ghastly thing to write this way, using my own water, but the Jews had great success evading the censors in the camps using this method, and evasion is now my utmost priority. I pray that you will discover the words I am writing.
I need to speak to you and Trudy plainly, so that you may know your husband, and so that you can see beyond the lies they shall tell about me. This is especially important as I have such little time left. My cancer has spread, my love, and I have just weeks left to live.
Darling, no one knows my heart as well as you, and you know that I joined Hitler and his band of criminals on the promise that they would help protect our Christian faith from the godless Communists. I wept bitter tears when I saw his troops smash their way through the museums and universities of Europe, but I was convinced it was for a holy cause, one that God himself had blessed. How else could one account for the string of victories Hitler won?
When I was ordered to Syria, I went with joy swelling in my breast, knowing that the Holy Spirit was leading me onward. I would, thanks to the al-Qalqashandi Fragment, find the True Cross, succeed where others had failed, and return the holiest of relics to our church. Held in common ownership by all God’s children, the Cross would grant us all incredible power with which to make our fallen world a better one.
But God opened my eyes… before it was too late. Hitler’s victories turned to bloody defeats, and Europe was soaked by the blood of innocents. Hitler’s messages to me became more and more incoherent: one day I was to be promoted to the highest office, the next I was to return to Berlin to be hanged.
Finally, Himmler, Hitler’s little rodent of an underling, dispatched an SS officer to oversee our work. God delivered him safely, of that I’m sure, for he soon revealed the truth that had been hidden from me.
This colonel confessed to me that Hitler did not want to save Christianity but to bury it. He and Himmler were building their black Camelot, a vile new religion with Nazi leaders as the new messiahs. Wewelsburg Castle would be both Rome and Jerusalem for this new black faith, where they planned to house the stolen relics of Christianity, draw from their power, and grind Christ’s name into dust.
Hearing his words, my heart filled with dismay, as the truth, finally, was revealed to me: Hitler and his fanatics were spiritually dead. They sought the True Cross to obtain an everlasting life they did not deserve.
I felt utterly ashamed to have helped Hitler set this plan in motion. And so, knowing that Christ would accept no less from me, I sabotaged our search for the Cross. I pled ignorance and led my team in every direction apart from the one that led to the Cross.
Prayer sustained me in those dark times, my darling, prayer and the boundless love I feel for you.
As you know, the failure of the Syria dig ruined my reputation in Hitler’s eyes and I was recalled to Berlin. No doubt I would have perished in one of the Fuhrer’s exterminations, but the tide was turning in his war, and he had little time for a failed functionary like me. I was shuttled between various backwater posts, which was punishment enough as it kept me from you and Trudy. Even so, I succeeded in getting you both out of the country by the war’s end before being apprehended by the Americans. I may have failed many times as a husband and father, but in this, at least, I was successful.
Alas, the Americans who captured me knew of my special service to Hitler, and they doubted my assurance that I did not know the location of the Cross. You know the rest of my sad tale.
But there is one thing you don’t know. By the time I returned to Berlin in 1941, Hitler’s Stormtroopers had raided my office, and it is likely they found information related to the Cross. A sharp mind, as sharp as mine, would easily be able to piece together what I left and learn the true location. If they do, then Hitler’s black Camelot could rise from the ashes at Wewelsburg.
My love, it is for that reason that I contracted with a professor of science, a certain Dr. Gunther Volcker, who is working on the cutting edge of medicine. He tells me of a new procedure which can extend the lives of decrepit people, even the sick like me. I suspect that this man is a fraud, but I am desperate. I must not, I cannot allow Hitler’s followers to abuse my work and seize the Cross.
For that reason, I shall be entrusting my body to Professor Volcker at the moment of my death. I have provided the guards here at Spandau with a large payment of cash, such that they will help facilitate the removal of my body to Volcker’s laboratory. A pauper will be placed in the grave reserved for me in Berlin, to keep this conspiracy from becoming public.
My goal is simple: to remain here on this mortal Earth long after I have been called to Heaven. I cannot turn my back on an Earth I have put in such terrible danger. This is my penance.
I do this, my love, to atone for my many mistakes! I do not fear to meet my Maker; in point of fact, I long to kneel before Him and proclaim my love for He who died for us all. But I will deny myself the sweetness of His gaze. I cannot rest. I must keep watching!
When my watch is over, and if the Lord blesses us in eternity as He did in life, then we shall see one another again in a better place.
Until that time, my love,
Your Walter
Krueger, Brandt, and Grimm, the three chance companions, stood in the faltering light of dusk. Krueger looked punch-drunk, his mammoth jaw hanging slack, as if he’d been socked in the mouth by a prizefighter.
“How did you…” he asked in a small voice, as Barnaby Grimm removed a comb from him pocket and smoothed his immaculate black locks.
He looked nonchalantly at the cop. “Quite simple really,” he said. “And I’m amazed that our good Dr. Brandt didn’t test my theory beforehand.”
“What theory?” she mumbled.
“Why, that Krueger was using the very first invisible ink known to mankind: human urine. Like I said, quite simple. You write the message you wish to keep hidden using a thin, wooden stick dipped in your own water. The urine then loses its color, but the acid scorches the paper and the text can be seen again if one warms the surface on which it’s been written.”
“Fascinating,” Krueger said, oblivious to the fact that he’d appropriated Grimm’s favorite word and was using it for himself.
“The technique was first used by spies for the Roman Empire, and it has lasted ever since. Inmates at the Ravensbruck concentration camp used the same method to get secret messages to their families outside.”
“And General Krueger used it to,” Brandt said.
“So it would seem,” Grimm said, before leading his companions towards his Lear. “We should make haste,” he said. “Having a mother from Ghana taught me a deep love of folklore and legends… but having a Calvinistic Scottish father taught me the importance of timekeeping too. We need to get you out of the country.”
The expensive engine purred as the jet soared over the plains of Germany. Inside, Grimm was seated in a high-backed leather chair, a glass of something comforting next to him. Krueger, at Grimm’s insistence, was laying on a sumptuous couch, buttery soft and piled high with cushions.
“You look drained, dear boy,” Grimm said, as he put his hand on the cop’s shoulder.
Grimm was right; Krueger’s cheeks were the color of sodden ash. His lips kept trembling, as if he were talking furtively to himself. “Where’re we going?” he asked absently.
“Wherever we wish,” Grimm said, removing his tweed coat and donning a smoking jacket instead. It was disgustingly ostentatious, and Krueger would have taken a dislike to anyone else wearing it, but Grimm, for all his frippery, possessed a serious mind. “I can arrange transport to pretty much anyplace on Earth.” Grimm removed a monographed cigarette holder from his pocket and began to smoke a fragrant tobacco.
“Why would you do this?” Krueger asked.
“The greatest curse of being rich is boredom,” Grimm said unhesitatingly. “One can almost feel one’s mind rotting amid the parties and vacations. It’s why I went into antiquities. All the best adventures happened long ago, and I hoped to live vicariously through the heroes of yore. Alas, those dusty libraries are as dull to me as the lavish city cocktail bars. Adventure is still the one thing I struggle to buy.”
They all fell into silence, leaving the stewardess to minister to their various needs. As Grimm began playing a delicate gavotte through the speakers, something which sounded like Bach, Krueger drank deeply from a mug of sweet-smelling tea and sighed as the sunset blazed gloriously through the window.
Krueger tried to forget the case, but couldn’t. And sometime after seven, with the sky around him now a velvety blue, he found his muscles begin to loosen. He smiled reluctantly. It was in just this fashion, stretched out and comfortable as his mind raced along multiple pathways to the truth, that he had cracked many cases back in New York. It was not cutting-edge technology or deadly weapons that had helped Joe Krueger send dozens of verminous crooks to Riker’s, but his beat-up couch and a frosty bottle of beer, with five auxiliaries waiting for him in the fridge.
“So how does this letter aid us?” Krueger asked, now eager for the mental marathon ahead. Barnaby began to look at him with a fey expression, as if doubting a strapping man with a bulldozer for a chin was capable of deep thought.
“Well,” said Brandt eagerly, having waited impatiently for the opportunity to address the topic, “it tells us your grandfather is not the villain we supposed him to be. He got into bed with Volcker, I think, for honorable reasons.”
“Perhaps,” Krueger said, “but that doesn’t help answer our two most pressing questions. Is my grandfather still alive, and if so, is he responsible for the terror attacks in America?”
“I’m afraid, dear boy,” Grimm said, swirling his drink in his manicured hand, “that this text offers few clues to those twin mysteries.”
“Then this has been a waste,” Brandt said.
“Perhaps not,” Krueger replied. “Dr. Grimm, can you tell us what the al-Qalqashandi Fragment is?” Grimm smiled broadly, luxuriating in the fact that he was now lost in a riddle his fortune could never have bought.
“Shihab al-Din abu 'l-Abbas Ahmad ben Ali ben Ahmad Abd Allah al-Qalqashandi was a medieval Egyptian mathematician and cryptologist. Amongst his many works was a partially completed biography of Saladin, the conqueror of the Crusader States, which we call the al-Qalqashandi Fragment. He died before he could complete the work.”
“Why would General Krueger believe it to hold the key to finding the True Cross?” Brandt asked.
Grimm shook his head. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “The Fragment contains little new information of worth, save for the mistake he made about Saladin’s children.”
“What mistake?” Brandt asked.
“Almost every historical source records that Saladin sired seven sons, but al-Qalqashandi claimed that he fathered twelve. An obvious error.”
Krueger leaned across the table and examined the paper. The words were lost again now that the paper had cooled. “So Brandt’s right,” he said. “This has been a waste.”
Grimm, fluent in six languages, did not know what to say. “I’m afraid that is all I know of the Fragment,” he mumbled finally. “If you wish to learn any more, I suggest an online search, or a trip to the Saladin Citadel of Cairo, which is where it is stored.”
“Cairo,” Brandt whispered, savoring the word on her tongue, trying to remember why that name had recently been mentioned.
“Cairo!” Krueger bellowed, leaping to his feet beside her. He turned his enormous face toward Dr. Grimm, and his eyes darkened.
Grimm watched in apprehensive fascination as Krueger emptied the pockets of his shearling and shuffled through the papers he had accumulated on his journey.
Krueger worked with a deft and expert touch. Fallujah had taught him that a lead in a case, even a small one, needed to be followed up promptly if it was to stay fresh. Years pounding the streets of New York had seared that lesson into his brain.
“Here!” he said triumphantly, bringing out a business card from Weber’s wallet. It was for the Memphis Hotel in Cairo. On the other side, a hasty hand had written: Room 41.
Krueger allowed himself a smile. It was broad and lasted on his lips for many minutes. At last, he had his break in the case. Krueger knew it was likely a pyrrhic victory, but after days of delays, confusion, and retreats, it was nonetheless a welcome one.
“This means,” Brandt said, “that the man ordered to kill you, and perhaps guard your grandfather’s cryo-pod, was also in the city—”
“Where the key to finding the True Cross is hidden,” Krueger said, finishing her sentence. “Hardly a coincidence.”
“This merits an investigation, surely?” Grimm asked hopefully. “A detective of your caliber would not allow this opportunity to wither on the vine.”
Krueger allowed himself another, smaller smile. “If you’re willing, ready, and able, Dr. Grimm,” he said, “I sure would appreciate a ride to Egypt.”
Grimm leaned back and laughed. “It would be my pleasure, sir,” he said, “though I haven’t a clue what to wear. All my linen suits are back in the Balearic Islands.”
“OKAY,” O’BRIAN SAID, flinging the unwanted rind of a donut into the trash, “you can tell that hausfrau that there’s no way Grandpa Krueger survived the cryogenic freezing.”
Far above the Mediterranean Sea, shielding his eyes from the sparkle of the azure waves, Krueger was talking with his partner. Brandt was next to him, the repeated target of O’Brian’s ribbing.
“You sure about this?” Krueger asked. “I mean, it’s not like you’re a Nobel Laureate or anything.” Grimm had set Krueger up with video conferencing technology, meaning he could watch as O’Brian took his laptop in both his meaty palms and feigned dumping it in the trash.
“Unlike you, Joey, I know how to run an investigation. I hit up all my sources, called in a few favors too, which means this is coming not from me, but from the chief coroner, a professor of physics from NYU, and the chief science correspondent of the Times.”
O’Brian was seated in the bullpen. It was just before seven in the morning, and the cops around him were too tired and too busy to notice that he was talking to their missing comrade. But O’Brian had nonetheless fitted his computer with a privacy screen and was talking in a barely audible hush. Slowly, he fanned out some recent print-outs over his desk.
“Let me count the ways that revival after cryogenic freezing is impossible. First, the obvious: your grandad died of terminal cancer. And last I checked, we still ain’t found a cure for that, meaning even if we could wake him up, he’d still be meeting his maker pretty quick. Second: lack of suitable cryo-protectants at the time Krueger died. You remember them potholes on 51st, Joey?” O’Brian asked.
