The Einstein Prophecy Read Free

the cavern and saw a ring of ore carts about twenty yards off, arranged as if to demarcate a separate area, that he stopped. “Is it in there?”
    The mayor nodded, but would go no farther.
    “Are you certain?”
    “Ja. Ja . ”
    “I’m going to check it out,” Lucas said to Toussaint. “You stay here and keep an eye on grandpa.”
    He stepped away from the cover of the crates and, gun drawn, approached the circle of wagons. On one, a placard dangled, bearing a printed black swastika. When he got close enough, he read the words. Bestimmungsort: Berchtesgaden/Kehlsteinhaus. (Destination: Berchtesgaden/the Eagle’s Nest.)
    Hitler’s private mountain retreat.
    No wonder the old man hadn’t wanted to come any farther. The idea of betraying the Führer himself, of turning over his hand-picked possessions, was a frightening one. God help him if he ever had to answer for it.
    Lucas turned sideways to slip between two of the carts, set up as if they were bunkers to shield the unwary from a blast, and was surprised to find the enclosed area, no larger than a badminton court, occupied by a terrifying tableau.
    At first, he thought he was looking at a scarecrow lying in the dirt. Arms and legs spread wide, it looked so hollow that it seemed as if only straw, not flesh, filled its sleeves and trousers. Even the head, facedown, looked like a rotting pumpkin—swollen and sickly orange in color, the visible skin strangely pitted and stained. How long, Lucas wondered, had the corpse been lying there, and what the hell had killed it?
    Then something just beyond and above the figure drew his eye. Mounted on four sawhorses, as if they were an altar, squatted the sarcophagus. Lucas didn’t need to get any closer to know that he had found his quarry—even from this distance, he recognized the gabled lid and sharpened corners, the iron chains sealing it shut. But because of a trick of the lights overhead, he found it hard to see any more detail than that. It was as if the box was bathed in its own shadow.
    Then he caught that glimpse again, of something swiftly darting to his right.
    “Halt! Hände hoch!” —Stop! Hands up!—he shouted, swiveling and aiming his revolver.
    He heard the crunch of gravel underfoot.
    “ Komm raus, oder ich schiess e!” Come out now, or I’ll shoot.
    “No, please, do not shoot.” It was a child’s voice, quavering in German.
    “What’s going on?” Toussaint called.
    The blond boy, the one with the tinfoil, crept out from behind one of the wagons, his thin arms raised above his head. Lucas was reminded again of Paulie, holding up the arrowhead for all to see.
    “Lieutenant?” Toussaint yelled, loping toward the circle with his carbine up. “You okay?”
    Lucas lowered his own gun. “All clear!”
    Toussaint shimmied between the carts, sweeping his rifle over the enclosure. “Jesus H. Christ,” he said when he saw the boy. “I coulda killed the kid.”
    “What are you doing in there, Hansel?” the mayor demanded. He remained outside the ring of ore carts. “Didn’t I warn you not to go this far into the mine?”
    Lucas almost had to laugh. Hansel. Could Gretel be far behind? Maybe he had stumbled into one of Grimm’s fairy tales.
    The boy saw the corpse, and his eyes grew big as saucers.
    “I just wanted some chocolate,” he blubbered.
    Even the German kids knew that the GIs were good for a Hershey’s bar. Lucas had one in his shirt pocket right now; he’d been saving it for dinner, but it looked to him like Hansel needed it a whole lot more than he did. To divert the boy’s attention from the grisly scene, he took the candy out of his pocket and offered it to him.
    “Come on,” he said, “you’ve earned it.”
    “Don’t reward him,” the old man called out. “He was disobedient.”
    Lucas was simply so pleased at discovering the ossuary, and not getting killed in the process, that he was happy to dispense some happiness. Meeting a CRC request was one thing; fulfilling a