Besides being a goddess, Astrid is an adventurer who’s always ready to embark on the most improbable quests—in this case, searching for the elixir of life.
I’m along for the ride, firstly, because she’s incredibly beautiful, but also because if we don’t find the elusive philosopher’s stone, I’ll still end up spending a week alone with her—and that itself is reward enough
So, it's a week later and we’re driving in Hamburg, pulling up to the five star hotel where Astrid has booked adjoining rooms.
She still hasn’t told me how she chanced upon her information about the elixir and how it ties into the ancient legend.
“We’ll discuss it tonight over dinner,” she promises.
We’ll see.
I never underestimate Astrid and her ability to preserve a mystery while enhancing her mystique.
She’s booked rooms at the Fairmont Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten and we’re dining tonight at the Wohnhalle—a dining room with a turn of the century country house atmosphere and a cheery open fireplace.
“Who’s paying for all this opulence?” I ask.
“The Smithsonian.”
“Jerrod Mason?” I croak, “He’s sponsoring this?”
“Of course—did you think I could finance this on my own?”
My jealousy is piqued and I’m miffed at being left out of the loop—especially since Jerrod’s a good friend.
“Oh, c’mon Paul—don’t let my secrecy spoil the evening—it was a necessary precaution and Jerrod insisted upon it, until we set our boots on German soil.”
I know what Jerrod’s thinking. I’ve been beguiled before and allowed the priceless tablets of The Lost Book of Mormon to slip between my fingers—all the result of a pretty girl.
Still, I don’t like being fluffed off.
“I’m not a child—I have a right to know.”
“You do and I intend to enlighten you—right now—over a glass of Shiraz.”
The waiter appears with a bottle of Yellow Tail and I’m somewhat mollified.
Once we clink glasses and sip, I insist she tell the full story.
“You’re not going to believe this,” she starts, and I feel misgivings begin to sour my stomach and rise like acid reflux.
“The Comte de St. Germain died near here in 1784.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Her violet eyes flash. “Please Paul—don’t be sarcastic.”
“Okay—Continue, Milady.”
I raise my glass in mock toast. She rolls her eyes.
“St. Germain became acquainted with Prince Charles of Hasse-Kassel—he was an occultist who was a mystic and belonged to several secret societies. Like St. Germain, he was also interested in alchemy and participated in the Magnum Opus—the great effort to discover the Philosopher’s Stone.”
“So, they were both searching for the elixir of life?”
“Correct,” she smiles. “The Prince installed St. Germain in an abandoned factory at Eckernförde, where he was supposedly developing a new method for coloring cloth.”
“But that was a cover, obviously,” I surmise.
“Right. What he was really working on was distilling the elixir of life.”
I let the meaning of her words sink in.
“So, there’s no exotic fountain or spring here—just a hidden laboratory?”
“Not quite,” she frowns.
“No laboratory? Then what?”
“A vial of the elixir.”
“A vial? You brought me all this way for a mere vial?” I’m vexed.
“Not just any vial, Paul—the elixir of life. A few drops will restore a person to health and cure any disease.
If our scientists can analyze its contents, it’ll be the greatest accomplishment in western medicine.”
“Regardless of whether such an elixir works, what makes you think the vial is here?”
“St. Germain confided in the Prince. He told him he was already several hundred years old when he arrived here and needed to distill more of the elixir to continue living—but before the distillation process could be completed, St. Germain died.”
“Oh, great!” I groan.
“The story doesn’t end there. On March 2, 1784 his funeral was held at St. Nicolai Church and the Count was buried in a private grave on the site. The cost of the burial is listed in the accounting books of the church.”
I stop her. “You’re not proposing we dig up his corpse are you?”
She looks shocked. “Of course, not. On April 3, of the same year, The Mayor and city council issued a proclamation and the Count’s remaining effects were auctioned off.
The Prince donated the factory/laboratory to the Crown and it was turned into a hospital.”
“Charming story,” I applaud. “Can we leave now?”
“You are so exasperating!”
The look in her eyes is enough to quiet me. “You don’t get it, do you?”
The fact was, I didn’t get it and was beginning to think this was a wasted trip.
“What’s to get? The Count’s dead and his secret’s buried with him.”
“You’re such a linear thinker, Paul Rutledge.”
“What am I missing here?”
“The Count’s effects were auctioned off.”
“Oh, I get it. The vial was sold along with his test tubes and lab equipment.”
“Nothing that obvious,” she snaps. “But among the Count’s possessions was a very ornate grandfather clock.
“I see.” I look at her blankly.
“The alchemists always insisted the elixir had to be stored in clocks to amplify the effects of immortality upon the user.”
“Who purchased the clock?” I ask excitedly.
“The clock was purchased by a Hans Oberlein and passed down through generations of his family. It’s being auctioned off today in an estate sale—and I intend to purchase it for the Smithsonian.”
“But what if there’s nothing concealed within its works? —after all, the clock’s three hundred years old.”
“Then, the Smithsonian will acquire a very handsome timepiece, “ she smiles, “ but if it’s been untouched and we find the vial—the discovery will be priceless.”