The Charlemagne Pursuit

by Steve Berry

  “That’s why he wants them all dead,” Davis said. “When you let that file go to Malone, he panicked. He can’t have that get out. Can you imagine what that would do to the navy?”

  But she wasn’t so sure. There had to be more to the story.

  Davis stared at Rowland. “Who else knows?”

  “Me. Sayers, but he’s dead. Admiral Dyals. He knew. He commanded the whole thing and gave us the order of

  silence.”

  Winterhawk. That’s what the press called Dyals, referring to both his age and his political leanings. He’d long been compared to anotheraging, arrogant naval officer who also eventually had to be chased off. Hyman Rickover.

  “Ramsey became Dyals’ favorite,” Rowland said. “Got assigned to the admiral’s personal staff. Ramsey worshiped the man.”

  “Enough to protect his reputation, even now?” she asked.

  “Hard to say. But Ramsey’s a strange bird. Doesn’t think like the rest of us. I was glad to be rid of him after we got back.”

  “So Dyals is the only one left?” Davis asked.

  Rowland shook his head. “One more knew.”

  Had she heard right?

  “There’s always an expert. He was a hotshot researcher the navy hired. Strange guy. We called him the Wizard of Oz.

  You know, the guy behind the curtain who nobody ever saw? Dyals himself recruited him, and he reported only to Ramsey and the admiral. He’s the one who opened those crates, all by himself.”

  “We need a name,” Davis said.

  “Douglas Scofield, PhD. He liked to always remind us of that. Dr. Scofield, he called himself. None of us was impressed. His head was so far up Dyals’ ass he never saw daylight.”

  “What happened to him?” she asked.

  “Hell if I know.”

  They needed to leave, but first there was one more thing. “What about those crates from Antarctica?”

  “We took everything to a warehouse at Fort Lee. In Virginia. And left it with Scofield. After that, I have no idea.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  OSSAU, FRANCE

  MALONE STARED DOWN AT THE IRON CHAIN LYING IN THE SNOW. Think. Be careful. A whole bunch isn’t

  right here. Especially not the clean snip in the chain. Somebody had come prepared with bolt cutters.

  He removed the gun from beneath his jacket and pushed open the gate.

  Frozen hinges screamed out.

  He entered the ruin over crumbling masonry and approached the diminishing arches of a Roman doorway. He

  descended several crumbling rock steps into an inky interior. What little light existed filtered in with the wind through bare window frames. The thickness of the walls, the slant of the openings, the iron gate at the entrance all indicated the rudimentary times in which they were created. He stared around at what was once important—half place of worship, half citadel, a fortified locale on the outskirts of an empire.

  Each exhale vaporized before his eyes.

  His gaze continued to rake the ground, but he saw no evidence of others.

  He advanced into a maze of columns that supported an intact roof. The sense of vastness disappeared upward into shadowy vaults. He wandered among the columns as he might among tall trees in a petrified forest. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for or what he expected, and he resisted the urge to be taken in by the spooky surroundings.

  From what he’d read on the Internet, Bertrand, the first bishop, made quite a name for himself. Legend attributed many wonders to his miraculous powers. Nearby Spanish chieftains routinely left a trail of fire and blood across the Pyrénées, and the local population was terrified of them. But before Bertrand they surrendered their prisoners and retreated, never to return.

  And there was the miracle.

  A woman had brought her baby and complained that the father would not support them. When the man denied any

  complicity, Bertrand ordered that a vessel of cold water be placed before them and he dropped a rock inside. He told the man to take the stone from the water and, if he was lying, God would give a sign. The man lifted the stone but his hands came away scalded, as if boiled. The father promptly admitted his paternity and made proper amends. For his piety Bertrand eventually acquired a label— the Brightness of God. He supposedly shunned the description but allowed it to be applied to the monastery, apparently remembered by Einhard, decades later, as he drew up his last will and testament.

  Malone left the columns and passed into the cloister, an irregular-roofed trapezoid lined with arches, columns, and capitals. Roof timbers, which appeared to be new, seemed to have been the focus of recent restorations. Two rooms led off the right side of the cloister, both empty, one with no roof, the other with collapsed walls. Surely once refectories for the monks and guests, but only the elements and animals now possessed them.

  He turned a corner and advanced down the short side of the gallery, passing several more collapsed spaces, each dusted with snow from either empty window frames or open roofs, brown nettles and weeds infecting their recesses. Above one door a faded carved image of the Virgin Mary stared down. He glanced beyond the doorway into a spacious room.

  Probably the chapter house where the monks had lived. He stared back out into the cloister garden at a crumbling basin with faint leaf and head decorations. Snow engulfed its base.

  Something moved across the cloister.

  In the opposite gallery. Fast and faint, but there.

  He crouched and crept to the corner.

  The long side of the cloister stretched fifty feet before him, ending at a double archway with no doors. The church. He assumed that whatever was to be found would be there, but this was a long shot. Still, somebody had cut the chain outside.

  He studied the inner wall to his right.

  Three doorways opened between him and the cloister’s end. Arches to his left, which framed the windy garden, were all severe, bearing scarcely any ornamentation. Time and the elements had taken their toll. He noticed one lonely cherub that had survived, bearing an armorial shield. He heard something, from his left, in the long gallery.

  Footsteps.

  Coming his way.

  RAMSEY LEFT HIS CAR AND HUSTLED THROUGH THE COLD, ENTERINGnaval intelligence’s main

  administrative building. He was not required to pass through any security checkpoint. Instead a lieutenant from his staff waited at the door. On the walk to his office, he received his usual morning briefing.

  Hovey was waiting in his office. “Wilkerson’s body has been found.”

  “Tell me.”

  “In Munich, near Olympic Park. Shot in the head.”

  “You should be pleased.”

  “Good riddance.”

  But Ramsey wasn’t as thrilled. The conversation with Isabel Oberhauser still weighed on his mind.

  “Do you want me to authorize payment to the contract help who handled the job?”

  “Not yet.” He’d already called overseas. “I have them doing something else, in France, at the moment.”

  CHARLIESMITH SAT INSIDESHONEY’S AND FINISHED HIS BOWL OFgrits. He loved them, especially with salt

  and three pats of butter. He hadn’t slept much. Last night was a problem. Those two had come for him.

  He’d fled the house and parked a few miles down the highway. He’d spotted an ambulance rushing to the scene and followed it to a hospital on the outskirts of Charlotte. He’d wanted to go inside, but decided against the move. Instead he’d returned to his hotel and tried to sleep.

  He would have to call Ramsey shortly. The only acceptable report was that all three targets had been eliminated. Any hint of a problem and Smith would find himself a target. He taunted Ramsey, took advantage of their long-standing relationship, exploited his successes, all because he knew Ramsey needed him.

  But that would change in an instant if he failed.

  He checked his watch.

  6:15 AM.

  He had to risk it.

  He’d noticed a
phone outside, so he paid his bill and made the call. When the hospital’s menu was recited in his ear, he selected the option for patient information. Since he did not know the room number, he waited until an operator came on the line.

  “I need to find out about Herbert Rowland. He’s my uncle and was brought in last night.”

  He was told to hold a moment, then the woman came back. “We’re sorry to say that Mr. Rowland died shortly after arriving.”

  He feigned shock. “That’s horrible.”

  The woman offered her condolences. He thanked her, hung up, and exhaled a sigh of relief.

  That was close.

  He grabbed his composure, found his cell phone, and dialed a familiar number. When Ramsey answered he cheerfully said, “Three for three. Batting a thousand, as usual.”

  “I’m so glad you take pride in your work.”

  “We aim to please.”

  “Then please me once more. The fourth one. You have the okay. Do it.”

  MALONE LISTENED. SOMEBODY WAS BOTH BEHIND AND AHEAD OFhim. He kept low and darted into one

  of the rooms that opened off the gallery, this one, he saw, with walls and a ceiling. He pressed his spine taut against the inner wall, adjacent to the doorway. Darkness exaggerated the room’s shadowy corners. He was twenty feet from the church entrance.

  More footsteps.

  From back down the gallery, away from the church.

  He gripped the gun and waited.

  Whoever was there kept approaching. Had they seen him slip inside? Apparently not, as they made no effort to mask their steps through the brittle snow. He readied himself and cocked his head, using peripheral vision to watch the doorway. The footsteps were now on the opposite side of the wall against which he was pressed.

  A form appeared, walking toward the church.

  He pivoted and grabbed for a shoulder, swinging the gun around and whirling whoever it was into the outer wall, the gun jammed into ribs.

  Shock stared back.

  A man.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  CHARLOTTE, 6:27 AM

  STEPHANIE MADE A CALL TOMAGELLANBILLET HEADQUARTERSand requested some information on Dr.

  Douglas Scofield. She and Davis were alone. Half an hour ago two Secret Service agents had arrived and brought with them a secure laptop, which Davis commandeered. The agents were ordered to take custody of Herbert Rowland, who was being moved into a new room under another name. Davis had spoken with the hospital administrator and obtained her cooperation in announcing that Rowland had died. Surely somebody was going to check. Sure enough, the patient information operator had already reported a call twenty minutes ago—from a male who identified himself as a nephew

  —inquiring into Rowland’s condition.

  “That should make him happy,” Davis said. “I doubt our killer will risk a trip inside. To make sure, there’ll be an obituary in the paper. I’ve told the agents to explain it all to the Rowlands and get their cooperation.”

  “A bit rough on friends and family,” she said.

  “It’ll be rougher if the guy realizes his mistake and comes back to finish what he started.”

  The laptop signaled an incoming e-mail. Stephanie clicked open the message from her office:

  Douglas Scofield is a professor of anthropology at East Tennessee State University. He was associated with the navy from 1968 to 1972 on a contract basis, his activities classified. Access is possible but will leave a trail, so it wasn’t done as you indicated silence on these inquiries. His published works are numerous. Besides the usual anthropological journals, he writes for New Age and occult magazines. A quick Internet check revealed subject matters that include Atlantis, UFOs, ancient astronauts, and paranormal events. He’s the author of Maps of Ancient Explorers (1986), a popular account of how cartography may have been influenced by lost cultures. He is currently attending a conference

  in Asheville, North Carolina, titled Ancient Mysteries Revealed. Being held at the Inn on Biltmore Estate. About 150

  registered. He’s one of the organizers and a featured speaker. Seems an annual event, as this is billed as the fourteenth conference.

  “He’s the only one left,” Davis said. He’d been reading over her shoulder. “Asheville’s not far from here.”

  She knew what he was thinking. “You’re not serious.”

  “I’m going. You can come if you want. He needs to be approached.”

  “Then send the Secret Service.”

  “Stephanie, the last thing we need is a show of force. Let’s just go and see where it leads.”

  “Our friend from last night may be there, too.”

  “We can only hope.”

  Another ding singled an answer to her second inquiry, so she opened the reply and read:

  The navy leases warehouse space at Fort Lee, Virginia. They have since World War II. Presently, they control three buildings. Only one is high security and contains a refrigerated compartment installed in 1972. Access is restricted by numeric code and fingerprint verification through Office of Naval Intelligence. I managed to view its visitor log stored on the navy’s database. Interestingly, it’s not classified. Only one non–Fort Lee personnel entered during the last 180

  days. Admiral Langford Ramsey, yesterday.

  “Still want to argue with me?” Davis asked. “You know I’m right.”

  “All the more reason for us to get help.”

  Davis shook his head. “The president won’t let us.”

  “Wrong. You won’t let us.”

  Davis’ face conveyed challenge and submission. “I have to do this. Maybe you have to do it now, too. Remember, Malone’s father was on that boat.”

  “Which Cotton should know.”

  “Let’s get him some answers first.”

  “Edwin, you could have been killed last night.”

  “But I wasn’t.”

  “Revenge is the quickest way to get yourself killed. Why don’t you let me handle this? I have agents.”

  They remained alone in a small conference room the hospital administrator had provided.

  “That’s not going to happen,” he said.

  She could see arguing was pointless. Forrest Malone had been on that sub—and Davis was right, that was enough incentive for her.

  She shut down the laptop and stood.

  “I’d say we have about a three-hour ride to Asheville.”

  “WHO ARE YOU?” MALONE ASKED THE MAN.

  “You scared me to death.”

  “Answer my question.”

  “Werner Lindauer.”

  He made the connection. “Dorothea’s husband?”

  The man nodded. “My passport’s in my pocket.”

  No time for that. He withdrew the gun and yanked his captive back into the side room, out of the gallery. “What are you doing here?”

  “Dorothea walked here three hours ago. I came to see about her.”

  “How did she find this place?”

  “You apparently don’t know Dorothea that well. She doesn’t explain herself. Christl is here, too.”

  That, he had expected. He’d waited in the hotel, believing she either knew of this place or would locate it the same way he’d managed.

  “She came up here before Dorothea.”

  He turned his attention back into the cloister. Time to see what was inside the church. He motioned with the gun. “You first. To the right and into that doorway at the end.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “Nothing about this is smart.”

  He followed Werner into the gallery, then through the double archway at its end, and immediately sought cover behind a thick column. A wide nave, made to seem narrow by more columns that extended its length, stretched before him. The columns turned in a semicircle behind the altar, following the curve of the apse. Bare walls on either side were high, the aisles broad. No decoration or ornamentation anywhere, the church more ruin than building. The wind’s haunting music sounded through bare window frames
partitioned by stone crosses. He spotted the altar, a pillar of pitted granite, but what sat before it drew his attention.

  Two people. Gagged.

  One on either side, on the floor, their arms tied behind them around a column.

  Dorothea and Christl.