“ ‘Massacre’ could be, in a stretch, synonymous with ‘anguished,’ couldn’t it?”
“Sure.”
“Then how about this: a painting by Francois Dubois called
“What’s the context?”
Sam scanned the article, then summarized: “France, in 1572 . . . from August to October of that year Catholic mobs attacked minority Huguenots throughout the country . . .” Sam leaned back in his chair and frowned. “Anywhere between ten thousand and a hundred thousand were killed.”
“If that isn’t anguish I don’t know what is,” Remi murmured. “Okay, so combine that with Bavaria. . . .”
Sam leaned forward and began typing again, this time using for his major search terms “Dubois,” “Saint Bartholomew,” and “Bavaria,” in combination with “day” and “massacre.”
“Might as well throw in our synonyms for ‘Hajj,’” Remi said, then dictated from the whiteboard: “ ‘Mecca,’ ‘pilgrimage,’ ‘Islam,’ ‘pilgrim’ . . .”
Sam finished typing and hit Enter. “A lot of results,” he whispered, scrolling through the page. “Nothing obvious, though.”
“Let’s start subtracting and mixing words from the search.”
For the next hour they did just that, trying permutations of their search terms until finally, near sunrise, Sam found something interesting with the combination of “Saint Bartholomew,” “Bavaria,” and “pilgrim.” He said with a grin, “Lightbulb just popped on.”
“What?” Remi said, then leaned in and read from the screen:
“Saint Bartholomae’s Pilgrim Church, Bavaria, Germany.”
CHAPTER 45
SCHONAU, BAVARIA
Unbelievable,” Sam whispered.
He and Remi stepped to the wooden railing of the overlook and stared at the vista below. Finally Remi murmured, “I don’t think the word ‘beautiful’ even begins to capture this, Sam. Why did it take us this long to come here?”
“I have no idea,” he whispered back, then lifted his Canon EOS digital camera and took a picture. They’d been to Bavaria before, but never this area. “Even ‘breathtaking’ doesn’t seem to fit, does it?”
“Not even close. I can almost hear ‘The Sound of Music.’ ”
Below them lay the emerald waters of the Konigssee (King’s Lake) Fjord. Measuring just over half a mile at its widest point and bracketed on both sides by thickly forested granite escarpments and jagged snowcapped peaks, the Konigssee meandered its way from the village of Schonau in the north down to the Obersee, or Upper Lake, five miles to the south. Long ago severed from the Konigssee by a landslide, the Obersee sat tucked away in its own oval valley surrounded by alpine meadows bursting with wildflowers and encircled by tumbling waterfalls, sights that attracted nature lovers and photography buffs the world over. A special boat service ran from Schonau to the Obersee’s Salet docks.
Aside from the occasional wake from the handful of electric tour boats that soundlessly plied the Konigssee, the lake’s surface was perfectly calm, a sun-dappled mirror reflecting the greens and grays and ochers of the surrounding forests and cliffs. Everywhere Sam and Remi turned lay yet another perfectly composed alpine postcard.
Two-thirds of the way down the Konigssee, where it narrowed to only a few hundred yards before widening again and curving southeast toward the Obersee, Saint Bartholomae’s Pilgrim Church sat in a clearing of trees on the Hirschau Peninsula.
An architectural hybrid of sorts, half of Saint Bartholomae’s Church was an old Bavarian ski lodge with white stucco exterior walls, steeply sloped gray shingle roof, and heavy wooden shutters painted in greens and yellows, while the other half was made up of a cluster of three red-roofed onion domes atop of which further rose two spires: one a windowless dome, the other, sitting nearer the water’s edge, a more traditional steeple, with a sloped hip roof and shuttered slit windows.
“Is it ironic that Hitler also loved this place?” Remi asked, “or just a little scary?”
Berchtesgaden, the municipality in which the Konigssee sat, was also home to Adolf Hitler’s mountaintop retreat known as the Eagle’s Nest.
“No one’s immune to beauty,” Sam replied. “Even him, it seems.”
The question was, Sam and Remi knew, aside from the scenery, why exactly were they here?
Though they had deciphered only the first part of the latest riddle, they’d felt confident enough in their solution to immediately call Selma and ask her to arrange passage from Monaco to Bavaria. By midmorning, having thanked Yvette for her hospitality and promised to return and recount their exploration, they were on their way to the Nice airport, from there to Paris, and then to Salzburg, where they rented a car and drove the remaining thirty miles to Schonau am Konigssee.
“What time does our boat leave in the morning?” Remi asked.
“Nine. Remind me to check the weather tonight.” Even now in late spring the Konigssee valley’s weather was volatile, prone to days that could go from warm sunshine to brooding clouds to snow in the space of an hour. The savvy Konigssee visitor was always armed with a spare sweater or Windbreaker.
Given Saint Bartholomae’s location, there were only two ways to reach it, either by boat from Schonau or by hiking in through the surrounding mountain passes. While the latter option piqued their wanderlust they knew it would have to wait for their next visit. Time was not their friend now. While their infiltration of Bondaruk’s estate had put them a step ahead, given how long the man had likely been pursuing the Lost Cellar, and given the scope of his resources, their lead could be short-lived. They’d seen no sign of Kholkov or his men, but still a touch of paranoia seemed warranted. Until they found whatever secrets Saint Bartholomae’s held and were safely away, they’d assume they were being watched. Moreover, they would assume their invasion of Khotyn had enraged an already frustrated Bondaruk. Whatever restraint the man might have thus far shown was probably gone. What they couldn’t predict was, given the lengths to which Bondaruk had already gone, what might he do now?
If the Konigssee was the height of alpine beauty, Sam and Remi decided the nearest village, Schonau, epitomized the word “quaint.”
Home to five thousand souls, Schonau, which sat astride the stone-strewn river that fed the Konigssee, was a sprawling collection of homes and businesses, each one a Bavarian architectural gem that seemed more chalet than building. On the eastern side of Schonau’s truncated S-shaped harbor, just south of a string of cafes, restaurants, and hotels, sat a curved line of boathouses whose styling seemed torn from the pages of a Vermont covered bridges coffee-table book.
Now, as Sam steered their car down the tree-lined road to Schonau, they could see the day’s last tour boats gliding in and out of the boathouses, their wakes forming translucent fans atop the emerald water.
A few minutes later they pulled into the parking lot of the Hotel Schiffmeister. Fronted by white and red awnings and balconies bursting with red and white and pink flowers, the Schiffmeister’s facade was painted in earth-toned rococo traceries of intertwined flowers and vines and spirals. As the valet saw to their car and the bellhop to their bags, they walked into the lobby and found the front desk. Minutes later they were being shown into their lakefront suite.
They each showered, wrapped themselves in the hotel’s heavy terry cloth robes, then ordered coffee from room service and settled on the balcony overlooking the water. With the sun falling behind the mountains to the west, the lake was backlit in a golden hue and the calm evening air was growing chilled. On the streets and sidewalks below, tourists strolled along, looking in shop windows and taking pictures of the harbor.
Sam powered up his iPhone and tapped into the hotel’s satellite Internet connection. “Something from Selma,” he said, scanning their e-mail. With typical efficiency she had compiled a report on Xerxes I and the
