The Charlemagne Pursuit

by Steve Berry

  course, he was long on complaints and short on explanations.”

  She caught a twinkle in the president’s eye.

  “I showed him a file we found in Ramsey’s house, inside a safe. Fascinating stuff. No need to go into the details—let’s just say that the good senator will not be running for president and will retire, effective December thirty-first, from Congress to spend more time with his family.” A look of unmistakable command swept over Daniels. “The country will be spared his leadership.” Daniels shook his head. “You three did a great job. So did Malone.”

  They’d buried Forrest Malone two days ago in a shady south Georgia cemetery, near where his widow lived. The son, on behalf of the father, refused interment in Arlington National Cemetery.

  And she’d understood Malone’s reluctance.

  The other nine crewmen had likewise been brought home, their bodies delivered to families, the true story of NR-1A finally being told by the press. Dietz Oberhauser had been sent to Germany, where his wife claimed his and her daughters’ remains.

  “How is Cotton?” the president asked.

  “Angry.”

  “If it matters,” Daniels said, “Admiral Dyals is taking a lot of heat from the navy and the press. The story of NR-1A has struck a nerve with the public.”

  “I’m sure Cotton would like to ring Dyals’ neck,” she said.

  “And that translation program is yielding a wealth of information about that city and the people who lived there. There are references to contacts with cultures all over the globe. They did interact and share, but thank heaven they weren’t Aryans. No super race. Not even warlike. The researchers stumbled onto a text yesterday that may explain what happened to them. They lived in Antarctica tens of thousands of years ago, when it wasn’t iced over. But as the temperatures fell, they gradually retreated into the mountains. Eventually, their geothermal vents cooled. So they left.

  Hard to say when. They apparently used a different time measurement and calendar. Just like with us, not everyone had access to all of their knowledge, so they couldn’t reproduce their culture elsewhere. Only bits and pieces—here and there—as they worked their way into our civilization. The best informed left last and wrote the texts, leaving them as a record. Over time, those immigrants were absorbed into other cultures, their history lost, nothing of them but legend remained.”

  “Seems sad,” she said.

  “I agree. But the ramifications from this could be enormous. The National Science Foundation is sending a team to Antarctica to work the site. Norway has agreed to give us control of the area. Malone’s father, and the rest of NR-1A’s crew, did not die for no good reason. We may learn a great deal about ourselves, thanks to them.”

  “I’m not sure that would make Cotton, or those families, feel better.”

  “Study the past, if you would divine the future, ” Davis said. “Confucius. Good advice.” He paused. “For us, and for Cotton.”

  “Yes, it is,” Daniels said. “I hope this is over.”

  Davis nodded. “For me, it is.”

  McCoy agreed. “Nothing would be served by hashing this out in public. Ramsey’s gone. Smith’s gone. Kane’s gone.

  It’s over.”

  Daniels stood, stepped to his desk, and grabbed a journal. “This came from Ramsey’s house, too. It’s the logbook from NR-1A. The one Herbert Rowland told you about. The asshole kept it all these years.” The president handed it to her. “I thought Cotton might like it.”

  “I’ll get it to him,” she said, “once he calms down.”

  “Check out the last entry.”

  She opened to the final page and read what Forrest Malone had written. Ice on his finger, ice in his head, ice in his glassy stare.

  “From The Ballad of Blasphemous Bill, ” the president explained. “Robert Service. Early twentieth century. He wrote about the Yukon. Cotton’s daddy was obviously a fan.”

  Malone had told her how he’d found the frozen body, ice in his glassy stare.

  “Malone’s a pro,” Daniels said. “He knows the rules and his father knew them, too. It’s tough for us to judge folks from forty years ago by today’s standards. He needs to get over it.”

  “Easier said than done,” she made clear.

  “Millicent’s family needs to be told,” Davis said. “They deserve the truth.”

  “I agree,” Daniels said. “I assume you want to do that?”

  Davis nodded.

  Daniels smiled. “And there was one bright spot through all this.” The president pointed at Stephanie. “You didn’t get fired.”

  She grinned. “For which I’m eternally grateful.”

  “I owe you an apology,” Davis said to McCoy. “I misread you. I haven’t been a good co-worker. I thought you were an idiot.”

  “You always so honest?” McCoy asked.

  “You didn’t have to do what you did. You put your ass on the line for something that didn’t really involve you.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Ramsey was a threat to national security. That’s in our job description. And he killed Millicent Senn.”

  “Thank you.”

  McCoy gave Davis a nod of gratitude.

  “Now that’s what I like to see,” Daniels said. “Everybody getting along. See, a lot of good can come from wrestling rattlesnakes.”

  The tension in the room abated.

  Daniels shifted in his chair. “With that out of the way, unfortunately we have a new problem—one that also involves Cotton Malone, whether he likes it or not.”

  MALONE SWITCHED OFF THE GROUND-FLOOR LIGHTS AND CLIMBEDto his fourth-floor apartment. The

  shop had been busy today. Three days before Christmas and books seemed to be on Copenhagen’s gift list. He

  employed three people who kept the store open while he was gone, for which he was grateful. So much that he’d made sure each of them received a generous holiday bonus.

  He was still conflicted about his father.

  They’d buried him where his mother’s family lay. Stephanie had come. Pam, his ex-wife, was there. Gary had been emotional, seeing his grandfather for the first time lying in the casket. Thanks to the deep freeze and a skillful mortician, Forrest Malone lay as if he’d died only a few days before.

  He’d told the navy to go to hell when they suggested a military ceremony with honors. Too late for that. Didn’t matter that no one there had participated in the inexplicable decision not to search for NR-1A. He’d had enough of orders and duty and responsibility. What had happened to decency, righteousness, and honor? Those words seemed always

  forgotten when they really counted. Like when eleven men disappeared in the Antarctic and no one gave a damn.

  He made it to the top floor and switched on a few lamps. He was tired. The past couple of weeks had taken a toll, capped off by watching his mother burst into tears as the coffin was lowered into the ground. They’d all lingered after and watched as workers replaced the dirt and erected a tombstone.

  “You did a wonderful thing,” his mother had said to him. “You brought him home. He would have been so proud of you, Cotton. So very proud.”

  And those words had made him cry.

  Finally.

  He’d almost stayed in Georgia for Christmas but decided to come home. Strange, how he now considered Denmark

  home.

  Yet he did. And that no longer gave him pause.

  He walked into the bedroom and lay down on the bed. Nearly elevenPM and he was exhausted. He had to stop this intrigue. He was supposed to be retired. But he was glad he’d called in his favor with Stephanie.

  Tomorrow he’d rest. Sunday was always a light day. Stores were closed. Maybe he’d drive north and visit with Henrik Thorvaldsen. He hadn’t seen his friend in three weeks. But maybe not. Thorvaldsen would want to know where he’d been, and what had happened, and he wasn’t ready to relive it.

  For now, he’d sleep.

  Malone awoke and cleared the dream from his mind. The beds
ide clock read 2:34AM. Lights were still on throughout the apartment. He’d been sleeping for three hours.

  But something had roused him. A sound. Part of the dream he’d been having, yet not.

  He heard it again.

  Three squeaks in quick succession.

  His building was seventeenth century, completely remodeled a few months ago after being firebombed. Afterward, the new wooden risers from the second to the third floor always announced themselves in a precise order, like keys on a piano.

  Which meant someone was there.

  He reached beneath the bed and found the rucksack he always kept ready—a habit from his Magellan Billet days.

  Inside, his right hand gripped the Beretta automatic, a round already chambered.

  He crept from the bedroom.