‘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.’
53
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!’