by Steve Berry
STEPHANIE WATCHED AS DAVIS' RIGHT HAND EASED INTO MCCOY'S coat pocket. Charlie Smith was still positioned at the window, holding the HK53. She had no doubt he planned to kill them, and she was equally concerned that there was nobody here to help them. Their backup was bleeding on the front porch.
Davis stopped.
Smith's head whipped their way, satisfied all was well, then he stared back out the window.
Davis withdrew his hand, holding a 9mm automatic.
She hoped to heaven he knew how to use it.
The hand with the gun dropped to McCoy's side and Davis used her body to block Smith's view. She could see that Edwin realized that their choices were limited. He'd have to shoot Charlie Smith. But thinking about that act and doing it were two entirely different things. A few months ago she'd killed for the first time. Luckily there hadn't been a nanosecond to consider the act-she'd simply been forced to fire in an instant. Davis was not to be afforded such a luxury. He was thinking, surely wanting to do it, but at the same time not wanting to. Killing was serious business. No matter the reason or the circumstances.
But a cold excitement seemed to steady Davis' nerves.
His eyes were watching Charlie Smith, his face loose and expressionless. What was about to provide him the courage to kill a man? Survival? Possibly. Millicent? Surely.
Smith started to turn, his arms swinging the rifle barrel their way.
Davis raised his arm and fired.
The bullet tore into Smith's thin chest, staggering him back toward the wall. One hand left the rifle as he tried to steady himself with an outstretched arm. Davis kept the gun pointed, stood, and fired four more times, the bullets tearing a path through Charlie Smith. Davis kept shooting-each round like an explosion in her ears-until the magazine emptied.
Smith's body contorted, his spine arching and twisting involuntarily. Finally, his legs buckled and he toppled forward, smacking the flooring, his lifeless body rolling onto his spine, his eyes wide open.
NINETY-THREE
The underwater electrical fire destroyed our batteries. The reactor had already failed. Luckily the fire burned slow and radar was able to locate a break in the ice and we managed to surface just before the air became toxic. All hands quickly abandoned the boat and we were amazed to find a cavern with polished walls and writing, similar to the writing we'd observed on stone blocks lying on the seafloor. Oberhauser located a stairway and bronze doors, barred from our side, which, when opened, led into an amazing city. He explored for several hours, trying to locate an exit, while we determined the extent of damage. We tried repeatedly to restart the reactor, violating every safety protocol, but nothing worked. We carried only three sets of cold-weather gear and there were eleven of us. The cold was numbing, relentless, unbearable. We burned what little paper and refuse we had on board, but it wasn't much and provided only a few hours of relief. Nothing inside the city was flammable. Everything was stone and metal, the houses and buildings empty. The inhabitants seemed to have taken all of their belongings with them. Three other exits were located but they were barred from the outside. We possessed no equipment to force the bronze doors open. After only twelve hours we realized that the situation was desperate. There was no way out of the cocoon. We activated the emergency transponder but doubted its signal could reach far considering the rock and ice and the thousands of miles from the nearest ship. Oberhauser seemed the most frustrated. He found what we came in search of, yet would not live to know its extent. We all realized that we were going to die. No one would come search for us since we agreed to that condition prior to leaving. The sub is dead and so are we. Each man decided to die in his own way. Some went off alone, others together. I sat here and kept watch over my boat. I write these words so all will know my crew died bravely. Each man, including Oberhauser, accepted his fate with courage. I wish I could have learned more about the people who built this place. Oberhauser told us they are our forefathers, that our culture came from them. Yesterday I would have said he was insane. Interesting how life deals us cards. I was given command of the navy's most sophisticated undersea sub. My career was set. Captain's bars would have eventually come my way. Now I'll die alone in the cold. There's no pain, only a lack of strength. I am barely able to write. I served my country to the best of my ability. My crew did the same. I felt pride as they each shook my hand and walked off. Now, as the world starts to fade, I find myself thinking of my son. My one regret is that he will never know how I truly felt about him. Telling him what was in my heart always came hard. Though I was gone for long periods of time, not a moment in a day went by that he wasn't at the top of my thoughts. He was everything to me. He's only ten and surely knows nothing of what life holds for him. I regret that I won't be a part of shaping who he becomes. His mother is the finest woman I've ever known and she'll make sure he becomes a man. Please, whoever finds these words, give them to my family. I want them to know I died thinking of them. To my wife, know that I love you. It was never difficult for me to say those words to you. But to my son, let me say now what was so hard for me. I love you, Cotton.
Forrest Malone, USN
November 17, 1971 Malone's voice trembled as he read his father's final four words. Yes, they had been difficult for his father to say. In fact, he could never recall them ever being voiced.
But he'd known.
He stared at the corpse, the face frozen in time. Thirty-eight years had passed. During which Malone had grown into a man, joined the navy, become an officer, then an agent for the US government. And while all that occurred, Commander Forrest Malone had sat here, on a stone bench.
Waiting.
Dorothea seemed to sense his pain and gently grabbed his arm. He watched her face and could read her thoughts.
"Seems we all found what we came for," she said.
He saw it in her eyes. Resolution. Peace.
"There's nothing left for me," she said. "My grandfather was a Nazi. My father a dreamer who lived in another time and place. He came here seeking truth and faced his death with courage. My mother has spent the past four decades trying to take his place, but all she could do was pit Christl and me against each other. Even now. Here. She tried to keep us at odds, and was so successful that Christl was killed because of her." She went silent, but her eyes conveyed submission. "When Georg died, a large part of me died, too. I thought by securing wealth I could find happiness, but that's impossible."
"You're the last Oberhauser."
"We are a sorry lot."
"You could change things."
She shook her head. "To do that, I would have to place a bullet in Mother's head."
She turned and walked toward the steps. He watched her go with an odd mix of respect and contempt, knowing where she was headed.
"There will be repercussions from all this," he said. "Christl was right. History will change."
She kept walking. "It doesn't concern me. All things must end."
Her comment was colored by anguish, her voice trembling. But she was right. There came a time when everything ended. His military career. Government service. Marriage. Life in Georgia. His father's life.
Now Dorothea Lindauer was making a final choice of her own.
"Good luck to you," he called out.
She stopped, turned, and threw him a weak smile. "Bitte, Herr Malone." She let out a long breath and seemed to steel herself. "I need to do this alone." Her eyes implored him.
He nodded. "I'll stay here."
He watched as she climbed the stairs and passed through the portal, into the city.
He stared at his father, whose dead eyes caught no glint of light. He had so much to say. He wanted to tell him that he'd been a good son, a good naval officer, a good agent, and, he believed, a good man. Six times he'd been awarded commendations. He'd been a failure as a husband, but was working on being a better father. He wanted to be a part of Gary's life, always. All his adult life he'd wondered what had happened to his own father, imagining the worst. Sadly, re
ality was more terrible than anything he'd ever concocted. His mother had been similarly tormented. She'd never remarried. Instead she'd endured decades, clutching her grief, always referring to herself as Mrs. Forrest Malone.
How was it that the past never seemed to end?
A shot sounded, like a balloon popping beneath a blanket.
He envisioned the scene above.
Dorothea Lindauer had ended her life. Normally suicide would be deemed the result of a sick mind or an abandoned heart. Here, it was the only means to stop a madness. He wondered if Isabel Oberhauser would even comprehend what she'd wrought. Her husband, grandson, and daughters were gone.
A loneliness crept into his bones as he absorbed the deep silence of the tomb. Proverbs came to mind.
A simple truth from long ago.
He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind.
NINETY-FOUR
WASHINGTON, DC
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 22
4:15 PM
STEPHANIE ENTERED THE OVAL OFFICE. DANNY DANIELS STOOD and greeted her. Edwin Davis and Diane McCoy were already seated.
"Merry Christmas," the president said.
She returned the greeting. He'd summoned her from Atlanta yesterday afternoon, providing the same Secret Service jet that she and Davis had used, over a week ago, to travel from Asheville to Fort Lee.
Davis looked fine. His face had healed, the bruising gone. He wore a suit and tie and sat stiffly in an upholstered chair, his granite facade back in place. She'd managed a fleeting glance into his heart and wondered if that privilege would doom her from ever knowing him any further. He did not seem a man who liked to bare his soul.
Daniels offered her a seat, next to McCoy. "I thought it best we all have a talk," the president said, sitting in his own chair. "The past couple of weeks have been tough."
"How's Colonel Gross?" she asked.
"Doing good. His leg is healing fine, but that round did some damage. He's a bit irritated with Diane for giving him away, but grateful that Edwin can shoot straight."
"I should go see him," McCoy said. "I never meant for him to get hurt."
"I'd give it a week or so. I meant what I said about the irritation."
Daniels' melancholy eyes were the embodiment of woe.
"Edwin, I know you hate my stories, but listen up anyway. Two lights in a fog. On one, an admiral stands on the ship's bridge and radios the other light saying he's commanding a battleship and the light should veer right. The other light radios back and tells the admiral he should veer right. The admiral, being a testy sort, like me, comes back and reorders the other ship to go right. Finally, the other light says, 'Admiral, I'm the seaman manning the lighthouse and you better damn well go right.' I went out on a limb for you, Edwin. Way out. But you were the guy in the lighthouse, the smart one, and I listened. Diane, there, the moment she heard about Millicent, signed on and took a hell of a chance, too. Stephanie you drafted, but she went the distance. And Gross? He took a bullet."
"And I appreciate everything that was done," Davis said. "Immensely."
Stephanie wondered if Davis harbored any remorse for killing Charlie Smith. Probably not, but that didn't mean he'd ever forget. She looked at McCoy. "Did you know when the president first called my office, looking for Edwin?"
McCoy shook her head. "After he hung up, he told me. He was concerned that things might get out of hand. He thought a backup plan might be needed. So he had me contact Ramsey." McCoy paused. "And he was right. Though you two did a great job flushing Smith our way."
"We still have some fallout to deal with, though," Daniels said.
Stephanie knew what he meant. Ramsey's death had been explained as a murder by a covert operative. Smith's death was simply ignored since no one knew he even existed. Gross' injuries were attributed to a hunting accident. Ramsey's chief aide, a Captain Hovey, was questioned and, on threat of court-martial, revealed everything. In a matter of days the Pentagon cleaned house, assigning a new management team to naval intelligence, ending the reign of Langford Ramsey and anyone associated with him.
"Aatos Kane came to see me," Daniels said. "He wanted me to know that Ramsey had tried to intimidate him. Of 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 CLIMBED to 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.