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  Incommunicado.

  That was his test-run order.

  From the lower chamber, a ladder ran up to the conning tower that crowned the hull. This was where the captain—a lieutenant-commander called the Old Man—and his 1WO directed operations. At the moment, the snorkel was telescoped down and the periscope was up. The skipper wore casual clothes, except for his hat. To maintain authority, captains had to wear at least part of the uniform signifying their rank. With his eyes glued to the optical tube that used two prisms and a lens to offer him a scan of the surface world, the Old Man wore his cap shoved back from his brow.

  Sturmer stood poised by the torpedo computer. The skipper assumed he was waiting to perform his primary task: feeding instructions from his boss into the computer to aim and—if necessary—fire the torpedoes. But actually the Judas agent in a sea wolf's clothing was preparing to take control from the captain.

  "Alarm!"

  The captain barked the dreaded word.

  Sturmer tensed.

  "Action stations! We've been spotted!"

  Alarm signals blared and flashed.

  "How many, Skipper?"

  "One destroyer. Dead ahead."

  "And with it?"

  "Empty sea. Open tube caps. Flood tubes one and two."

  JUDAS KISS

  GERMANY, NOW

  The next day

  In the dreamy haze between sleep and wakefulness, Wyatt remembered a Punch cartoon from long ago. Two French foreign legionnaires in those caps with the flaps down the back to protect their necks against the sun are chatting in the desert. One says to the other, "I joined the legion two or three weeks ago to try to forget a girl called Elsie or something."

  In his case, Wyatt could now adapt that to say, "I flew to Europe days ago to try to forget a girl called Val or something."

  For beside him lay the woman who'd spent the night paying off her gambling debt.

  His socks were on the floor.

  His feet were in the bed.

  Hmm, he thought.

  For a while, Wyatt lay with his head propped up by his palm and studied this beautiful sleeping creature. The way her messy hair fanned around her peaceful face. The way her breasts expanded with each shallow breath. The way the sheet hugged her hips, as if jealous of him. He decided that coming to Germany ranked at the top of his list of best decisions.

  Up and at 'em, he thought.

  Wyatt was in the bathroom when the phone rang, twice. This was her room, so Liz took the calls. The first was obviously from her mother. Women, in his experience, took on a special tone when dealing with the matriarchal tut-tutters of their lives.

  The next call came from Sweaty, so Wyatt stayed mum. Never compromise a lover's reputation.

  "Problem?" he asked, emerging after Liz got off the phone.

  "My grandmother's taken a turn for the worse. An ambulance took her to the hospital. If I want her to have the relics from my grandfather's uniform, I'd better catch the next flight home. Sweaty called to say he's leaving too. And there's still no sign of Lenny. I wonder if he went home. And if so, why no goodbye?"

  "Hey," protested Wyatt, "what about me?"

  "What about you?"

  Raising a leg, he pointed to the sock on his foot.

  "I thought we had a deal."

  "Nice try," said Liz, and she threw back the sheet to rub salt in his wound.

  + + +

  "Yikes! What happened to you?" Wyatt asked when Liz came out of the elevator into the hotel lobby, dragging her suitcase on wheels. She was dressed like she was off to a shareholders'

  meeting at Virgin Atlantic.

  "It's the real me. I'm off to see my mum."

  "But"—he took in the corporate outfit—"you look so businesslike. What happened to the free spirit I've known up to now?"

  "That trollop was for you."

  "I liked her."

  "I'm sure you did."

  "You mean she's gone?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "I feel so used."

  "You'll get over it," said Liz. "In a decade or two."

  With the next landing of the elevator, out stepped Sweaty.

  He was sporting a blazer with the squadron crest.

  "This was sudden. You okay?" Wyatt asked.

  "When you reach my age, problems magnify. It's nothing serious, but I want to see a doc who's fluent in English.

  I've got one of those multi-day erections they warn you about on TV."

  Liz laughed. "The dose is one pill, Sweaty."

  "Now you tell me, sweet stuff."

  Halfway to the airport, they hit the autobahn. Cars went zooming past them at a thousand miles an hour. By the time they'd parked at the terminal, Wyatt's nerves were shot. If that's what German drivers called the pleasure of driving, he was glad he lived in a country with speed limits and highway patrolmen lurking in trees with handheld radar.

  "Good luck with the puzzle," Sweaty said on the terrorists' side of the security gate.

  "Call if you hear from Lenny. I'll hunt for him here," said Wyatt. "I'll see you in York."

  "It's not the meeting Balls proposed, but hopefully, his funeral can honor his crusade."

  "And thanks for these," said Liz, holding up the relics from Wrath Hannah's uniform. "I know they'll give my grandmother comfort."

  Liz kissed Wyatt on the cheek.

  "Hey!" grumbled Sweaty in his best James Cagney voice.

  "That's my girl."

  "Of course I am," said Liz, looping her arm through the sergeant's to guide him off to the security desk.

  Let's settle out of court, Wyatt mused. Liz can be your moll and my maul, respectively.

  + + +

  Having seen their plane off to London, Wyatt hung around the airport for the flight from Berlin. Before Liz and Sweaty altered their plans, he had arranged to greet an arrival today.

  The Ace of Clubs puzzle had grown so complex that Wyatt knew it was time to bring in his Big Bertha gun, Rutger.

  The last time he saw his Teutonic buddy, Rutger was the size of a Wagnerian opera heroine. His weakness was food. Put him in a kitchen and out would come gourmet schnitzels and mugs of cool beer. Though he had many friends who qualified as bon vivants, Wyatt thought Rutger was the best host of all.

  So he was surprised when the man who came through the gate looked like Jack Sprat.

  "What gives, Rutger? You are but a mere shadow of your former self."

  "I have a new girlfriend who's threatening to break up.

  She says I crush her in bed."

  We work to the same incentive, Wyatt thought.

  As do most men.

  "Thanks for coming."

  "Yours was an offer I couldn't refuse."

  "Is that them?" Wyatt asked, indicating Rutger's overstuffed briefcase.

  The German nodded. "A copy of every Kriegsmarine file describing a U-boat mission to Britain between the shooting down of the Ace of Clubs and the failure of the generals' July Plot to assassinate Hitler. If—as you theorize—the secret agent parachuted in by the RAF bomber was to smuggle out the Judas package by submarine, he must have sailed to Britain in one of these U-boats."

  "Gotta be. Wouldn't Judas want his peace offering in Churchill's hands for the surrender negotiations immediately after Hitler was eliminated from power?"

  "That's logical."

  "How does fifty-fifty sound? To split the royalties?"

  "Overly generous."

  "I could not have written Dresden without your help. Not a penny did you ask of me. Like most who speak the world's dominant tongue, I can't read yours."

  "Surely you studied a language?"

  "You'll laugh."

  "Try me."

  "I studied Latin."

  Rutger laughed. "That's of use."

  "I'll have you know that I have read Winnie-the-Pooh in Latin."

  "Not many Americans can say that."

  "Judging by what I hear on TV, few could read it in English either."

  Rutge
r laughed again.

  "It's getting so bad that publishers are sending books over-seas for editing," Wyatt added.

  "To England?"

  "Hell no. They can't speak English either. The last vestiges of the language are in India."

  "So what is Pooh in Latin?"

  "Winnie-ille-Pu."

  "Do you do readings?"

  "Tor mi', dixit sollemniter, 'egomet, Winnie-ille-Pu, cau-dam tuam reperiam'."

  "Sounds grand. What does it mean?"

  "'Eeyore,' he said solemnly, 'I, Winnie-the-Pooh, will find your tail for you.'"

  Rutger laughed a third time. "Fifty-fifty? You mean it?"

  "One, I need your research. Two, I need a translator. Three, I think we could jointly write a good book. Four, I owe you for Dresden. Five, I plan to work at your house over gourmet meals with fine wine. And last, you found the grave of Wrath Hannah for me. His granddaughter is most thankful."

  Rutger gave him a meaningful look.

  Wyatt grinned. "I couldn't possibly comment."

  + + +

  Rutger's arrival at the Ace's resting place caused a stir. While he was off holding court amid lesser historians, Wyatt was intercepted by a hard-eyed detective with the Federal Criminal Police.

  The Bundeskriminalamt.

  It sounded worse in German.

  "Herr Rook?"

  "Yes."

  The cop presented his ID. "Detective Inspector Horst Stritzel. May I ask you some questions?"

  "About what?"

  "Herr Jones. Do you know him?"

  "Lenny Jones?"

  "Yes."

  "Yes, I know him. What about him?"

  "When did you see him last?"

  "The day before yesterday. We were to meet for breakfast the next morning, but he didn't show up."

  "How long have you known him?"

  "We just met. Why?"

  "Herr Jones's body was fished from the river yesterday."

  Wyatt scowled. So that's why Lenny had missed brunch.

  "Has he been identified?"

  "Is there some reason for doubt?"

  Wyatt caught the narrowing of the eyes in the tight-skinned, bony face. He'd seen that same look of suspicion on the face of Detective Inspector Ramsey of Yorkshire CID when he was being questioned at the Balsdon murder scene.

  Uh-oh. Deja vu.

  "Who identified the body?"

  "Should that present a problem?"

  "I got the impression no one here had met Lenny before."

  "Interpol returned a match from Jones's fingerprints in America."

  Wyatt shrugged. "So why ask whether I doubt your identification?"

  "Herr Jones's face was bludgeoned beyond recognition."

  "With what?"

  "What do you think?"

  "Are you trying to trap me?"

  "I'm trying to discover the motive for Herr Jones's murder.

  His face was bashed in with a hammer. Why would someone do that?"

  "Why indeed? We live in the era of DNA. You don't need teeth or fingerprints to identify someone any more."

  "What brings you here, Herr Rook?"

  "I'm researching a book."

  "About the Ace of Clubs!" asked the BKA inspector.

  "Yes."

  "And the Judas agent?"

  "I was asked to investigate by the granddaughter of the bomber's pilot."

  "We know. I've been in contact with Detective Inspector Ramsey. Herr Jones was living in Wales."

  Suddenly, the American's nerves were on high alert. "Have you reason to doubt that Lenny was who he said he was?" he asked. "A descendant of the gunner?"

  "No, he was definitely the grandson," said Stritzel.

  "How do you know?"

  "DNA."

  "That was quick."

  Actually, Wyatt wasn't surprised by how quickly the test results had come in. These days, a lab could produce Lenny's DNA profile within hours.

  "The geneticist who tested Herr Jones's DNA," explained the cop, "was also the forensic scientist who extracted DNA from the skeleton found in the bomber."

  He indicated the turret of the plane in the pit.

  "Those DNA profiles matched," Stritzel said, "proving that Herr Jones was the rear gunner's grandson."

  The rear gunner? thought Rook.

  HOLY GRAIL

  LONDON

  London's airport was the crossroads of humanity. While the Legionary and the Art Historian waited at the gate, heads talking languages neither had heard before milled around them. There was a lingering smell of high-end Scotch from a duty-free purchase someone had dropped on the floor. A distressed young man rushed past them on his way to the toilet, muttering, "That will teach me not to eat the special in the Marrakech bazaar."

  "You touched it?" asked the young priest, his voice low for this tete-a-tete between conspirators.

  "Yes," replied the Art Historian. "The Holy Grail."

  "When?"

  "As a boy. In 1944."

  "Where?"

  "At home. In Germany."

  "How did that come about?"

  "I was dying when, by chance, Judas called on my father.

  My father was also Art Historian to the Vatican. He wasn't a member of the Nazi Party. He was a Catholic above all else.

  But because of his expertise as an art historian, he received a visitor one stormy night in 1944.1 sat near death up in my room."

  "From what?" the Legionary asked.

  "Meningitis. Exacerbated by the effects of black-market penicillin."

  "Penicillin?"

  "Yes. It was a brand-new wonder drug, but I was allergic to it and had a terrible reaction. My father had to tie me to an armchair to keep me from clawing myself to shreds. The doctor told my father he'd return in the morning to sign what would undoubtedly be my death certificate."

  "But you pulled through."

  "Thanks to Judas. He knocked on the door an hour later to ask my father's opinion on relics he possessed."

  "The Holy Grail?"

  "Right. The Holy Grail isn't the chalice from the Last Supper.

  Nor is it the body of Mary Magdalene. Those are merely myths spun from the twelfth century on."

  "The relics are authentic?"

  "That's what my father deduced because of the map and the document the man also had. But the absolute proof occurred when he carried the relics up to my room."

  So vivid was that childhood life-or-death experience that the Art Historian began to relive it as he described it to the Legionary.

  Thunder rattled the windowpanes of the upper-floor room where the delirious boy sat lashed to the arms and legs of an antique chair. The walls of this room—like those of the rest of the rooms in the house—were decorated with artwork seized from galleries that were "Aryanized" by the Nazis or stolen from Jewish collectors who'd fled to freedom or gone to death camps. This was the clearinghouse for the best pieces. To those who bought and sold treasures on the black market, there was nothing better than authentication by his father. The loot would be integrated into museum collections or shipped to anonymous hoarders, never to see the light of day again.

  Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Monet, Matisse, Picasso—all hung within these walls.

  The artwork displayed in this room, however, had divine pedigree. To the Nazis, it was sacrilege that works of religious sanctity had found their way into grubby secular hands, so they'd given the Art Historian an opportunity to rectify that travesty. He assessed the sacred works that came into this house, picking the best for a secret gallery hidden behind the fortifications of the Vatican.

  "Itchy and a burny and a sting!"

  That's what the boy blubbered repeatedly in his delirium.

  He was only five, but he sensed that he was dying. One minute he was burning with fever, and the next he shivered with chills. His head ached, one eye twitched, his neck felt stiff, and he recoiled from light and sound. As the storm filled the room with flashes of blue light, images in the paintings came to life.
<
br />   Hell was a pit under crimson skies, where oceans of fire and billowing smoke broiled and choked tormented sinners.

  Grotesque monsters—half demon, half machine, with hunks of human anatomy—tortured those who'd been abandoned by the Church. Overseeing the horror was Satan, with horns on his head, a black goatee, flaming red skin, and a long tail tipped with a triangular barb. In his hand, he held the piercing tines of a dung-heap pitchfork.

  Sinners got skinned alive.

  The boy thought they were lucky.

  He would have sold his soul to the Devil to be skinned alive, too.

  Anything to stop the insects burrowing beneath his raw skin.

  "Itchy and a burny and a sting!"

  The boy threw up.

  Then a crack of light appeared around the door, and he thought the angel of the Lord was coming to harvest him.

  Instead, it was his father with the Holy Grail.

  "Christ, cure my son," his father prayed, and he touched him with the relics.

  "And by dawn the next day," the Art Historian told the Legionary, "I was better. The doctor said the penicillin must have won the struggle, but I knew it was a miracle worked by the Holy Grail. I'm still allergic to penicillin. Deathly so. Imagine what will happen if the Judas relics end up in secular hands. The healing power of Christ won't rest in his one true Church. How can we not use every means we have to obtain those relics for the Holy See?"

  "Here he comes," interjected the Legionary.

  Exiting from the arrivals gate, Sweaty stopped to scan the crowd for a familiar face. He spotted the men waiting for him and hauled his suitcase over.

  "Why the secrecy, Lenny?" Sweaty asked the Legionary.

  JUDAS GOAT

  GERMANY

  Wyatt was inside the fuselage of the Ace of Clubs, counting the number of unexpended rounds in the ammo boxes and belts that fed shells to the rear turret, when Rutger heaved himself in from the pit outside.

  "Interesting," mused the American.

  "What is?" the German asked.

  "The guns in the dorsal turret"—Wyatt pointed overhead—