The Charlemagne Pursuit

by Steve Berry

  He watched as Christl ignored her sister and studied one of the columns.

  They were walking on a collage of mosaics. Henn examined the pavement with his light. Animals, people, scenes of daily life—each alive with bright color. A few yards away stood a circular stone ledge, perhaps thirty feet in diameter and four feet tall. He walked toward it and gazed over. A black stone-lined hole opened in the earth.

  The others approached.

  He found a rock the size of a small melon and tossed it over the side. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. A minute. Still no sound of the bottom.

  “That’s a deep hole,” he said.

  Similar to the predicament he’d dug for himself.

  DOROTHEA DRIFTED AWAY FROM THE PIT. WERNER FOLLOWED ANDwhispered, “You okay?”

  She nodded, again uncomfortable with his husbandly concern. “We need to finish this,” she whispered. “Move it along.”

  He nodded.

  Malone was studying one of the square red pillars.

  Each breath she took parched her mouth.

  Werner said to Malone, “Would it be faster if we divide into two groups and explore, then meet back here?”

  Malone turned. “Not a bad idea. We have another five hours before we check in, and it’s a long way back down that tunnel. We need to make that trek only once.”

  No one argued.

  “So there’s no fight among anyone,” Malone said, “I’ll take Dorothea. You and Christl go with Henn.”

  Dorothea glanced at Ulrich. His eyes told her that would be fine.

  So she said nothing.

  MALONE DECIDED THAT IF ANYTHING WAS GOING TO HAPPEN, NOWwas the time, so he’d quickly agreed

  with Werner’s suggestion. He was waiting to see who’d make the first move. Keeping the sisters and the married people apart seemed smart, and he noticed that no one objected.

  That meant he’d now have to play the hand he’d dealt himself.

  EIGHTY-SEVEN

  MALONE ANDDOROTHEA LEFT THE CENTRAL PLAZA AND VENTUREDdeeper into the cluster, the buildings

  packed tight like dominoes in a box. Some of the structures were shops with one or two rooms, opening directly to the street with no other obvious function. Others were set back, accessed by walkways leading between the shops to front doors. He noticed no cornices, eaves, or guttering. The architecture seemed eager to use right angles, diagonals, and pyramidal forms—curves appeared in restraint. Ceramic pipes, married with thick gray joints, ran house to house, and up and down the exterior walls—each beautifully painted—part of the décor, but also, he surmised, practical.

  He and Dorothea investigated one of the dwellings, entering through a sculpted bronze door. A mosaic-paved central courtyard was surrounded by four square rooms, each carved from stone with clear depth and precision. Onyx and topaz columns seemed more for decoration than support. Stairs led to an upper story. No windows. Instead, the ceiling consisted of more quartz, the pieces arched together with mortar. The weak light from outside refracted through and was magnified, making the rooms more resplendent.

  “They’re all empty,” Dorothea said. “As if they took everything and left.”

  “Which may be exactly what happened.”

  Images sheathed the walls. Groups of well-dressed woman seated on either side of a table, surrounded by more people.

  Beyond, a killer whale—a male, he knew from the tall dorsal fin—swam in a blue sea. Jagged icebergs floated nearby, dotted with colonies of penguins. A boat cruised the surface—long, thin, with two masts and the symbol from the plaza, emblazoned in red, on square sails. Realism seemed a concern. Everything was well proportioned. The wall reflected the flashlight beam, which drew him closer to caress the surface.

  More of the ceramic pipes ran floor to ceiling in every room, their exterior painted to blend with the images.

  He examined them with unconcealed wonder.

  “Has to be some sort of heating system. They had to have a way to keep warm.”

  “The source?” she asked.

  “Geothermal. These people were smart, but not mechanically sophisticated. My guess is that pit in the central plaza was a geothermal vent that would have heated the whole place. They channeled more heat into these pipes and sent it all over the city.” He rubbed the shiny exterior. “But once the heat source faded, they would have been in trouble. Life here would have been a daily battle.”

  A fissure marred one of the interior walls and he traced it with his light. “This place has taken some earthquake hits over the centuries. Amazing it’s still standing.”

  No reply had been offered to either of his observations, so he turned.

  Dorothea Lindauer stood across the room, a gun pointed at him.

  STEPHANIE STUDIED THE HOUSE THATDANNYDANIELS’ DIRECTIONShad led them to find. Old,

  dilapidated, isolated in the Maryland countryside, surrounded by dense woods and meadows. A barn stood to its rear.

  No other cars were in sight. They’d both come armed, so they stepped from the vehicle, weapons in hand. Neither of them said a word.

  They approached the front door, which hung open. Most of the windows were shattered clear. The house was, she estimated, two to three thousand square feet, its glory having faded long ago.

  They entered cautiously.

  The day was clear and cold and bright sunshine flooded in through the exposed windows. They stood in a foyer, parlors opening to their left and right, another corridor ahead. The house was single-story and rambling, connected by wide hallways. Furniture filled the rooms, draped in filthy cloths, the wall coverings peeling, the wood floors buckling.

  She caught a sound, like scraping. Then a soft tap, tap, tap. Something moving? Walking?

  She heard a snarl and growl.

  Her eyes focused down one of the halls. Davis brushed past and led the way. They came to a doorway into one of the bedrooms. Davis dropped behind her but kept his gun aimed. She knew what he wanted her to do, so she eased close to the jamb, peeked inside, and saw two dogs. One tawny and white, the other a pale gray, both busy eating something.

  They were each a good size and sinewy. One of them sensed her presence and raised its head. Its mouth and nose were bloodstained.

  The animal growled.

  His partner sensed danger and came alert, too.

  Davis moved up behind her.

  “Do you see it?” he asked.

  She did.

  Beneath the dogs, lying on the floor, was their meal.

  A human hand, severed at the wrist, three fingers missing.

  MALONE STARED ATDOROTHEA’S GUN.“YOU PLAN TO SHOOT ME?”

  “You’re in league with her. I saw her go into your room.”

  “I don’t think a one-night stand qualifies as being in league with someone.”

  “She’s evil.”

  “You’re both nuts.”

  He stepped toward her. She jutted the weapon forward. He stopped, near a doorway that led out into the adjacent room.

  She stood ten feet away, before another wall of shiny mosaics.

  “You two are going to destroy each other, unless you stop,” he made clear.

  “She’s not going to win this.”

  “Win what?”

  “I’m my father’s heir.”

  “No. You’re not. You both are. Trouble is, neither one of you can see that.”

  “You heard her. She’s vindicated. She was right. She’ll be impossible to deal with.”

  True, but he’d had enough and now was not the time. “Do what you have to do, but I’m walking out of here.”

  “I’ll shoot you.”

  “Then do it.”

  He turned and started out the doorway.

  “I mean it, Malone.”

  “You’re wasting my time.”

  She pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  He kept walking. She pulled the trigger again. More clicks.

  He stopped and faced her. “I had yo
ur bag searched while we ate at the base. I found the gun.” He caught the abashed look on her face. “I thought it a prudent move, after your tantrum on the plane. I had the bullets taken from the magazine.”

  “I was shooting at the floor,” she said. “I wouldn’t have harmed you.”

  He extended a hand for the gun.

  She walked over and surrendered it. “I hate Christl with all my being.”

  “We’ve established that, but at the moment it’s counterproductive. We found what your family has been searching for

  —what your father and grandfather worked their whole lives to find. Can’t you be excited about that?”

  “It’s not what I’ve been searching for.”

  He sensed a quandary, but decided not to pry.

  “And what about what you’ve been searching for?” she asked him.

  She was right. No sign of NR-1A. “The jury’s still out on that one.”

  “This could have been where our fathers were coming.”

  Before he could answer her speculation, two pops broke the silence outside, far off.

  Then another.

  “That’s gunfire,” he said.

  And they raced from the room.

  STEPHANIE NOTICED SOMETHING ELSE.“LOOK FARTHER RIGHT.”

  Part of the interior wall swung open, the rectangle beyond deep with shadows. She studied paw prints in the dirt and dust that led to and from the open panel. “Apparently they know what’s behind that wall.”

  The dogs’ bodies tensed. Both started barking.

  Her attention returned to the animals. “They need to go.”

  Their guns remained aimed, the dogs holding their ground, guarding their meal, so Davis shifted to the other side of the doorway.

  One of the dogs lunged forward, then abruptly stopped.

  “I’m going to fire,” he said.

  He leveled his gun and sent a bullet into the floor between the animals. Both shrieked, then rushed around in confusion.

  He fired again and they bolted through the doorway into the hall. They stopped a few feet away, realizing that they’d forgotten their food. She fired into the floorboards and they turned and ran, disappearing out the front door.

  She let out a breath.

  Davis entered the room and knelt beside the severed hand. “We need to see what’s down there.”

  She didn’t necessarily agree—what was the point?—but knewDavis needed to see. She stepped to the doorway. Narrow wooden steps led below, thendog-legged right into pitchdarkness. “Probably anold cellar.”

  She started the descent. He followed. At the landing she hesitated. Slivers of darkness evaporated as her pupils adjusted and the ambient light revealed a room about ten feet square, its curtain wall hacked from the ground rock, the floor a powdery dirt. Thick wooden beams spanned the ceiling. The frigid air was unmolested by ventilation.

  “At least no more dogs,” Davis said.

  Then she saw it.

  A body, wearing an overcoat, lying prone, one arm a stump. She instantly recognized the face, though a bullet had obliterated the nose and one eye.

  Langford Ramsey.

  “The debt is paid,” she said.

  Davis bypassed her and approached the corpse. “I only wish I could have done it.”

  “It’s better this way.”

  There was a sound overhead. Footsteps. Her gaze shot to the wood floor above.

  “That’s not a dog,” Davis whispered.

  EIGHTY-EIGHT

  MALONE ANDDOROTHEA FLED THE HOUSE AND FOUND THE EMPTYstreet. Another pop sounded. He

  determined its direction.

  “That way,” he said.

  He resisted breaking into a run, but quickened his pace toward the central plaza, their bulky clothing and backpacks slowing progress. They rounded the circular walled pit and trotted down another wide causeway. Here, deeper into the city, more evidence of geological disturbances could be seen. Several of the buildings had collapsed. Walls were cracked. Rocks littered the street. He was careful. Their legs couldn’t be trusted over such unsure footing.

  Something caught his eye. Lying near one of the faintly glowing elevated crystals. He stopped. Dorothea did, too.

  A cap? Here? In this place of ancient and abandoned possession, it seemed a strange intrusion.

  He stepped close.

  Orange cloth. Recognizable.

  He bent down. Above its bill was stitched:

  UNITED STATES NAVY

  NR-1A

  Mother of God.

  Dorothea read it, too. “It can’t be.”

  He glanced at the inside. Written in black ink was the name vaught. He recalled the court of inquiry report. Machinist Mate 2 Doug Vaught. One of the crew of NR-1A.

  “Malone.”

  His name had been called out across the vast interior.

  “Malone.”

  It was Christl. His mind jolted back to reality.

  “Where are you?” he yelled.

  “Over here.”

  STEPHANIE REALIZED THEY NEEDED TO FLEE THE DUNGEON. IT WASthe last place they’d want to

  confront anybody.

  A single set of footsteps thumped above, moving to the other side of the house, away from the room at the top of the stairs. So she lightly climbed the wooden risers, stopping at the top. Carefully, she peered around the open panel, saw

  no one, and exited. She motioned and Davis flanked one side of the hallway door, she the other.

  She risked a glance.

  Nothing.

  Davis went first, not waiting for her. She followed him back to the foyer. Still no one. Then movement from beyond the parlor into which she was staring—what would be the kitchen and dining room.

  A woman appeared.

  Diane McCoy.

  Just as Daniels had said.

  She walked straight toward her. Davis abandoned his position across the foyer.

  “The Lone Ranger and Tonto,” McCoy said. “Come to save the day?”

  McCoy wore a long wool coat, open in front, slacks, shirt, and boots beneath. Her hands were empty and the

  rhythmic thump, thump of her leather heels matched what they’d heard below.

  “Do you have any idea,” McCoy asked, “how much trouble you two have caused? Prancing around. Interfering in

  things that totally don’t concern you.”

  Davis aimed his gun at McCoy. “Like I care. You’re a traitor.”

  Stephanie did not move.

  “Now, that isn’t nice,” a new voice said. Male.

  Stephanie turned.

  A short, wiry man with a round face appeared in the opposite parlor with an HK53 pointed at them. She knew the assault rifle well. Forty rounds, rapid fire, messy. She also realized who held it.

  Charlie Smith.

  MALONE STUFFED THE CAP INTO HIS COAT POCKET AND RAN. A series of extended step-downs, twenty or

  so feet long, steadily lowered the street to a semicircular plaza that faced a tall colonnaded building. Statues and sculptures ringed its perimeter, displayed atop more square pillars.

  Christl stood among the columns on the building’s portico, a gun lowered at her side. He’d had her pack searched, but not her person. To do that would have alerted everyone that he wasn’t as dumb as they apparently thought him to be, and he had not wanted to lose the advantage of being underestimated.

  “What’s happening?” he asked, winded.

  “It’s Werner. Henn killed him.”

  He heard Dorothea gasp. “Why?”

  “Think, dear sister. Who gives Ulrich commands?”

  “Mother?” Dorothea asked in answer.

  No time for a family debate. “Where’s Henn?”

  “We split up. I came back just as he shot Werner. I found my gun and fired, but Henn fled.”

  “What are you doing with a gun?” he asked.

  “I’d say it’s a good thing I brought it.”

  “Where’s Werner?” Dorothea asked.