Page 26 of The Last Kingdom

Sure, he was playing a hunch.

But that seemed to be the story of his life.

He kept walking, following curving streets that zigzagged and turned, never coming to an end. He found the apartment in the exact location he remembered. He’d always been blessed with a perfect since of direction. They’d called him Bird Dog in the Rangers, a nickname he’d come to embrace. Hell of a lot better than Frat Boy. He wondered what Malone was doing. Probably by now snug in a warm hotel suite enjoying room service before flying back to Denmark tomorrow. He’d need to call and thank Pappy for helping him out, though things had not gone according to plan.

Close enough, though.

And like in horseshoes and hand grenades, close definitely counted here too.

He entered the apartment building, greeted by a miasma of aromas that an eternity of German cooking had left behind. One wall of the dingy vestibule held an array of brass-fronted mailboxes, each bearing a name card barely legible in the weak light of a ceiling bulb. He found the one for Christine Ertl and climbed the stairs to the third floor.

Listening from outside he heard nothing through the door. If this woman was home, and recognized him, that would be the end of things. So he quickly descended back to ground level and stepped out into the weather. No lights burned anywhere on the third floor. Looked like he had no choice now. He hustled back up to the apartment and knocked on the door. He waited a few seconds and lightly rapped again.

No answer.

He fished the picks he always carried from his wallet and quickly opened the lock in under thirty seconds.

Only ambient light leaked in through the windows of the apartment. Small. Four rooms. Sparsely furnished. Books everywhere. Stacked on the floor. Lining shelves. Piled on the sofa. He examined a few and noticed a commonality. Ludwig II, Bavaria, Germany. Most were older volumes from the early to mid-twentieth century. Their frayed covers evidenced much use. All bore the stamp of the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek. Foreign languages were not his thing, but he knewbibliothekmeant “library” andBayer“Bavaria.” Since the person who lived in the apartment also worked at the Bavarian State Library, it was a safe assumption as to where the books came from.

He glanced around the room and noticed a laptop on a small desk. That needed to be studied, but there was no time. Christophe had delivered the book, but it was nowhere to be seen.

Had Ertl taken it with her?

He stepped over to the desk and tested the drawers. Locked. He sat in the chair, found the picks, and easily opened the center drawer.

Inside sat the book.

Perfect. Lady Luck was with him tonight. That previous fumble might now result in a touchdown.

The printed text was all in German,278 pages, each yellowed from time. On what appeared to be the title page in front was a printed date.1875. He quickly thumbed through the pages. Nothing written on them anywhere. He returned to the title page. “Tannhäuser und der Sängerkrieg auf Wartburg.” Two of the words he recalled from his quick peek into the crypt, whatever they meant. The author was noted as Richard Wagner. On his phone he located Google Translate and learned the words meant “Tannhäuser and the Minnesingers’ Contest at Wartburg.”

He typed in a search, further learning thatTannhäuserwas an 1845 opera in three acts, music and text by Wagner, a nineteenth-century German opera composer. It was based on two German legends, Tannhäuser, the mythologized medieval GermanMinnesängerand poet; and the tale of the Wartburg Song Contest. The story centered on the struggle between the sacred and the profane, and redemption through love. Further scanning revealed something much more relevant.Ludwig II was intensely interested in the operas of Richard Wagner. This interest began when Ludwig first sawLohengrinat the impressionable age of fifteen, followed byTannhäuserten months later. Wagner’s operas appealed to the king’s fantasy-filled imagination.

Talk about connecting the dots.

He read from the screen a little more.

On May 4, 1864, the 51-year-old Wagner was given an unprecedented audience with Ludwig. Wagner later wrote, “Alas, he is so handsome and wise, soulful and lovely, that I fear that his life must melt away in this vulgar world like a fleeting dream of the gods.” Shortly after, Ludwig became Wagner’s patron, providing him financial support for over a decade. When Wagner died in 1883 he ordered no music to ever be played in the palaces again and all of the pianos draped in black.

What was so important about this old book?

An awful lot of effort had been expended to obtain it. Surely there were other copies out there somewhere. Why was it necessary to obtain this exact one? He laid the volume out flat and snapped an image of the title page. Thoughts of spies in the movies and on television using a mini camera, clicking off clandestine photographs on some sort of microfilm, came to mind. He smiled at how times had certainly changed.

Now everyone could be a spy.

He rifled through the entire volume and saw no markings anywhere inside except for an embossing on the title page.

A swan.

The bird’s form was pressed into the old paper, its neck bisected by two lines. He made several images of that and other random pages, along with the cover. Then he reviewed the photos, satisfied they were clear and readable, and replaced the book in the drawer. Okay. No harm, no foul from the mistakes made earlier at the palace. Sure, having the book itself would be great, but at least they now possessed enough information to move forward. He’d turn it all over to Koger and let the brains at Langley work away.

He rose from the chair and turned for the door.

The front doorknob jiggled.

He froze.

Somebody was testing the lock.

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