by Steve Berry
Once she’d parked in a clearing they sprang from the car. A pale hint of dawn touched the sky. Her face was chilled by the damp air.
She spotted the trail and ran.
Smith caught sight of orange among the winter foliage, maybe a quarter mile away. He was ensconced on a limb, braced against a pine trunk. A blowing wind swept past under what was slowly developing into an azure December sky, crisp and chilling.
Through field glasses, he watched as Scofield and his party trudged north. He’d gambled as to their ultimate route, hoping they would stay on the trail. Now, with Scofield in sight, that chance had paid off.
He looped the binoculars’ strap across a protruding branch and cradled the rifle, focusing through a long-range scope. He would have preferred to work more unnoticed, using a high-pressure sound suppressor, but he hadn’t brought one of his own and they were illegal to purchase. He gripped the wooden stock and patiently waited for his quarry to draw close.
Just a few more minutes.
Stephanie raced ahead, panic firing through her in sharp bursts. She kept her eyes trained ahead, searching the woods for movement. Her breath tore at her lungs.
Wouldn’t they all be wearing bright vests?
Was the killer out here?
Smith glimpsed movement behind the hunting party. He grabbed the binoculars and focused on the two from last night, rushing ahead, maybe fifty yards behind on a winding trail.
Apparently, his ruse had only partially worked.
He envisioned what would happen after Scofield died. A hunting accident would be immediately assumed, though the two intrepid souls closing the gap would scream murder. There’d be an inquiry by the local sheriff’s department and the state department of natural resources. Investigators would measure, photograph, and search, angles and trajectories would be noted. Once it was realized the bullet came from above, the trees would come under scrutiny. But hell, there were tens of thousands of those around.
Which ones would they search?
Scofield stood five hundred yards away, his two saviors closing. In a few moments, they’d make a turn on the trail and spot their target.
He refocused through the rifle scope.
Accidents happen all the time. Hunters mistake one another for game.
Four hundred yards away.
Even when they wear fluorescent orange vests.
The rifle’s crosshairs filled with his objective.
The shot needed to be in the chest. But the head would eliminate the necessity of a second round.
Three hundred yards.
Those two being here were a problem, but Ramsey expected Dr. Douglas Scofield to die today.
He squeezed the trigger.
The rifle barked across the valley and Scofield’s head erupted.
So the chance would have to be taken.
SEVENTY-FOUR
OSSAU, FRANCE
1:20 PM
Malone had read enough of Christl’s translation to know that he must go to Antarctica. If he had to take along four passengers, then so be it. Einhard had obviously experienced something extraordinary, something that had also enthralled Hermann Oberhauser. Unfortunately, the old German had sensed his impending doom and returned the book to where it had sat for twelve hundred years in the hope that his son might make the return journey. Yet Dietz had failed and had taken the crew of NR-1A down with him. If there was a chance in hell of finding that sunken sub, he had to take it.
They’d spoken to Isabel and told her what they’d found.
Christl was completing the translation, polishing her effort, making sure they possessed accurate information.
So he stepped from the inn into a frigid afternoon, and walked toward Ossau’s central square, each step like a crisp Styrofoam squeak on the fresh snow. He’d brought his phone and, while he walked, dialed Stephanie’s number. She answered on the fourth ring and said, “I’ve been waiting to hear from you.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“Being played for a fool never is.” He listened as she told him about the past twelve hours and what had happened at Biltmore Estate. “I watched the man’s skull be blown off.”
“You tried to tell him not to go, but he wouldn’t listen. No trace of the shooter?”
“A lot of woods between us and him. No way to find him. He chose his spot well.”
He understood her frustration but noted, “You still have a trail to Ramsey.”
“It’s more like he has us.”
“But you know the connection. He has to make a mistake at some point. And you said Daniels told you that Diane McCoy went to Fort Lee, and Ramsey visited there yesterday. Think, Stephanie. The president didn’t tell you that for nothing.”
“I thought the same thing.”
“I think you know your next move.”
“This sucks, Cotton. Scofield is dead because I wasn’t thinking.”
“Nobody said it’s fair. The rules are tough and the consequences tougher. Like you’d tell me. Do your job and don’t sweat it, but don’t screw up again.”
“The student teaching the teacher?”
“Something like that. Now I need a favor. A big one.”
Stephanie phoned the White House. She’d listened to Malone’s request and told him to stand by. She agreed. It had to be done. She also agreed that Danny Daniels was plotting.
She’d dialed a private line directly to the chief of staff. When he answered, she explained her need. A few moments later the president came on the line and asked, “Scofield’s dead?”
“And it’s our fault.”
“How’s Edwin?”
“Mad as hell. What are you and Diane McCoy doing?”
“Not bad. I thought I hid that one good.”
“No, Cotton Malone is the bright one. I was just smart enough to listen to him.”
“It’s complicated, Stephanie. But let’s just say I wasn’t as confident in Edwin’s approach as I’d like to be and, it seems, I was right.”
She couldn’t argue. “Cotton needs a favor, and it relates to this.”
“Go ahead.”
“He’s connected Ramsey, NR-1A, Antarctica, and that warehouse at Fort Lee. Those rocks with the writing on them—he found a way to read them.”
“I’ve been hoping that would happen,” Daniels said.
“He’s e-mailing a translation program. I suspect that’s the reason NR-1A went in 1971—to learn more about those rocks. Now Malone needs to go to Antarctica. Halvorsen Base. Immediately. With four passengers.”
“Civilians?”
“Afraid so. But they’re part of the deal. They have the site location. No them, no location. He’ll need air and ground transportation and equipment. He thinks he may be able to solve the NR-1A mystery.”
“We owe him this one. Done.”
“Back to my question, what are you and Diane McCoy doing?”
“Sorry. Presidential privilege. But I need to know, are you going to Fort Lee?”
“Can we use that private jet that brought the Secret Service here?”
Daniels chuckled. “Yours for the day.”
“Then yes, we’ll go.”
Malone sat on a frozen bench and watched knots of people pass by, everyone laughing, full of festivity. What was waiting in Antarctica? Impossible to say. But for some reason he feared it.
He sat alone, his emotions as brittle and cold as the air around him. He barely remembered his father, but there’d never been a day since he was ten years old that he hadn’t thought of the man. When he’d joined the navy, he’d met many of his father’s contemporaries and quickly learned that Forrest Malone had been a highly respected officer. He’d never felt any pressure to measure up—perhaps because he’d never known the standard—but he’d been told that he was a lot like him. Forthright, determined, loyal. He’d always considered that a compliment, but damn if he didn’t want to know the man for himself.
Unfortunately, death intervened.
And h
e was still angry at the navy for lying.
Stephanie and the court of inquiry report had explained some of the reasons for that deception. The secrecy of NR-1A, the Cold War, the mission’s uniqueness, the fact that the crew agreed to no rescue. But none of that was satisfactory. His father died on a foolhardy venture searching for nonsense. Yet the US Navy had sanctioned that folly and a bold cover-up.
Why?
His phone vibrated in his hand.
“The president has okayed everything,” Stephanie said when he answered. “There’s usually lots of prep and procedures that have to be followed before anyone goes to Antarctica—training, vaccinations, medical exams—but he’s ordered them suspended. A helicopter is on its way to you now. He wishes you well.”
“I’ll send the translation program by e-mail.”
“Cotton, what do you hope to find?”
A deep breath calmed his jangled nerves. “I’m not sure. But there’s a few of us here who have to make the journey.”
“Sometimes ghosts are better left alone.”
“I don’t recall you believing that a couple of years ago, when the ghosts were yours.”
“What you’re about to do. It’s dangerous, in more ways than one.” His face was cast down at the snow, phone to his ear. “I know.”
“Careful with this one, Cotton.”
“You, too.”
SEVENTY-FIVE
FORT LEE, VIRGINIA
2:40 PM
Stephanie drove a rental car obtained at the Richmond airport, where the Secret Service jet had landed after its quick flight from Asheville. Davis sat beside her, his face and ego still bruised. He’d been played twice for an idiot. Once years ago by Ramsey with Millicent, and yesterday by the man who’d skillfully murdered Douglas Scofield. The local police were treating the death as a homicide, solely on information Stephanie and Edwin had provided, though not a trace of an assailant had been found. Both of them realized that the killer was long gone, their task now to determine where. But first they needed to see what all the ruckus was about.
“How do you plan to get into that warehouse?” she asked Davis. “Diane McCoy didn’t manage.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”
She knew what or, more accurately, who that meant.
She approached the base’s main gate and stopped at the security point. To the uniformed sentry, she presented their identifications and said, “We have business with the base commander. Classified.”
The corporal retreated into his gate station and quickly returned, holding an envelope. “This is for you, ma’am.”
She accepted the packet and he waved them through. She handed the envelope to Davis and drove forward as he opened it.
“It’s a note,” he said. “Says to follow these directions.”
Davis navigated and she drove through the base until they entered a compound filled with metal warehouses, lying beside one another like half loaves of bread.
“The one marked 12E,” Davis said.
She saw a man waiting for them outside. Dark-skinned, hair jet black, cut short, his features more Arab than European. She parked and they both clambered out.
“Welcome to Fort Lee,” the man said. “I’m Colonel William Gross.”
He was dressed in jeans, boots, and a lumberjack shirt.
“A bit out of uniform,” Davis said.
“I was hunting today. Was called in and told to come as I am and be discreet. I understand you want a look inside.”
“And who told you that?” she asked.
“Actually, the president of the United States. Can’t say I’ve ever been called by one before, but I was today.”
Ramsey stared across the conference table at the Washington Post reporter. This was the ninth interview he’d granted today and the first in person. The others had all been by telephone, which had become standard operating procedure for a press with tight deadlines. Daniels, true to his word, had announced the appointment four hours ago.
“You have to be thrilled,” the woman said. She’d covered the military for several years and had interviewed him before. Not all that bright, but she clearly thought herself so.
“It’s a good post in which to end my career with the navy.” He laughed. “Let’s face it, that’s always been the last billet for anyone chosen. Not many places to go higher.”
“The White House.”
He wondered if she was knowledgeable or simply baiting him. Surely the latter. So he decided to have some fun with it. “True, I could retire out and make a run for the presidency. Seems like a plan.”
She smiled. “Twelve military men made it that far.”
He held up a hand in surrender. “I assure you, I have no plans for that. None at all.”
“Several people I spoke with today mentioned that you’d be an excellent political candidate. Your career has been exemplary. Not a hint of scandal. Your political philosophies are unknown, which means they could be molded however you choose. No party affiliation, which gives you choices. And the American people always love a man in uniform.”
Exactly his reasoning. He firmly believed that an opinion poll would reveal an overall approval of him, both as a person and a leader. Though his name was not that well known, his career spoke for itself. He’d dedicated his life to military service, been stationed around the globe, serving in every conceivable trouble spot. He’d received twenty-three commendations. His political friends were numerous. Some he’d cultivated himself, like Winterhawk Dyals and Senator Kane, but others gravitated toward him simply because he represented a high-ranking officer in a sensitive position who could be of help whenever they might need it.
“Tell you what, I’ll leave that honor to some other military person. I’m simply looking forward to serving on the Joint Chiefs. Going to be a terrific challenge.”
“I’ve heard Aatos Kane is your champion. Any truth to that?”
This woman was far more informed than he’d assumed. “If the senator spoke for me, then I’m grateful. With confirmation looming, it’s always nice to have friends on the Senate floor.”
“You think confirmation will be a problem?”
He shrugged. “I don’t presume anything. I simply hope the senators think me worthy. If not, I’ll be pleased to finish my career right where I am.”
“You sound like it doesn’t matter whether you get the job or not.”
One piece of advice many a nominee had failed to heed was simple and clear. Don’t ever appear anxious or entitled.
“That’s not what I said, and you know it. What’s the problem here? No story beyond the appointment itself, so you’re trying to make one?”
She seemed not to enjoy his reprimand, however tacit. “Let’s face it, Admiral. Yours was not the name most people would have associated with this appointment. Rose at the Pentagon, Blackwood at NATO—those two would have been naturals. But Ramsey? You came out of nowhere. That fascinates me.”
“Perhaps the two you mentioned weren’t interested?”
“They were, I checked. But the White House came straight to you, and my sources say it was thanks to Aatos Kane.”
“You need to ask Kane that question.”
“I did. His office said they’d get back to me with a comment. That was three hours ago.”
Time to placate her. “I’m afraid there’s nothing sinister here. At least not on my part. Just an old navy man grateful for a few more years to serve.”
Stephanie followed Colonel Gross into the warehouse. He’d gained entrance through a numeric code and digital thumb scanner.
“I personally supervise maintenance of all these warehouses,” Gross said. “My coming here will raise no suspicions.”
Which, Stephanie thought, was precisely why Daniels had enlisted his aid.
“You understand the secrecy of this visit?” Davis asked.
“My CO explained, as did the president.”
They stepped into a small anteroom. The rest of
the dimly lit storage facility loomed ahead through a plate-glass window that revealed row after row of metal shelving.
“I’m supposed to give you the history,” Gross said. “This building has been on lease to the navy since October 1971.”
“That’s before NR-1A sailed,” Davis said.
“I don’t know anything about that,” Gross made clear. “But I do know that the navy has maintained this building ever since. It’s equipped with a separate refrigerated chamber—” He pointed through the window. “—beyond the last row of shelves, which is still operational.”
“What’s in it?” she asked.
He hesitated. “I think you need to see that for yourself.”
“Is that why we’re here?”
He shrugged. “No idea. But Fort Lee has made sure this warehouse stayed in tip-top shape for the past thirty-eight years. I’ve been on the job for six of those. No one other than Admiral Ramsey himself enters this building, without me by their side. I stay with any cleaning or repair crew at all times. My predecessors did the same. The scanners and electronic locks were installed five years ago. A computer record is maintained of all who enter and is provided daily to the Office of Naval Intelligence, which has direct managerial oversight of the lease. Whatever anyone sees in here is classified, and all personnel understand what that means.”
“How many times has Ramsey visited?” Davis asked.
“Only once in the past five years—that the computer record shows. Two days ago. He also entered the refrigerated compartment. It has a separate recorded lock.”
She was anxious. “Take us.”
Ramsey showed the Post reporter from his office. Hovey had already told him about three more interviews. Two for television, one for radio, and they would happen downstairs, in a briefing room, where crews were setting up. He was beginning to like this. Much different from living in the shadows. He was going to make a great Joint Chief of Staff and, if all went according to plan, an even better vice president.
He’d never understood why the number two constitutional office couldn’t be more active. Dick Cheney had demonstrated the possibilities, becoming a quiet molder of policy without the attention the presidency continually attracted. As vice president, he could involve himself in what he wanted, when he wanted. And just as quickly un-involve himself, since—as John Nance Garner, FDR’s first vice president, had so wisely noted—most believed the office wasn’t worth a “warm bucket of spit,” though legend says reporters changed the spelling of the last word for print.