The Charlemagne Pursuit (45 page)

EIGHTY-TWO

MARYLAND, 10:20 PM

R
AMSEY LEFT THE DARK HIGHWAY AND DROVE INTO THE WOODS,
toward the Maryland farmhouse where he’d met Charlie Smith a few days ago.

Bailey Mill, Smith had called it.

He hadn’t liked Smith’s tone. Smart-ass, cocky, irritating—that was Charlie Smith. Angry, demanding, belligerent? No way.

Something was wrong.

Ramsey seemed to have acquired a new ally in Diane McCoy, one that had cost him twenty million dollars. Luckily, he’d stashed much more than that in various accounts across the globe. Money that had fallen his way from operations that either ended prematurely or were aborted. Thankfully, once a
CLASSIFIED
stamp was placed on a file, little in the way of a public accounting ever occurred. Policy required that whatever resources had been invested be returned, but that wasn’t always the case. He needed funds to pay Smith—capital to finance covert investigations—but his need was becoming more finite. Yet as that need tightened, so did the risks.

Like here.

His headlights revealed the farmhouse, a barn, and another car. Not a light on anywhere. He parked and reached into the center console, removed his Walther automatic, then stepped out into the cold.

“Charlie,” he called out. “I don’t have time for your crap. Get your ass out here.”

His eyes, attuned to the darkness, registered movement to his left. He aimed and ticked off two shots. The bullets thudded into the old wood. More movement, but he saw that it wasn’t Smith.

Dogs.

Fleeing the porch and the house, racing off toward the woods. Like last time.

He exhaled.

Smith loved to play games, so he decided to accommodate him. “Tell you what, Charlie. I’m going to flatten all four of your tires and you can freeze your ass off here tonight. Call me tomorrow when you’re ready to talk.”

“You’re not a bit of fun, Admiral,” a voice said. “Not a bit at all.”

Smith emerged from the shadows.

“You’re lucky I don’t kill you,” he said.

Smith stepped from the porch. “Why would you do that? I’ve been a good boy. Did everything you wanted. All four dead, nice and clean. Then I hear on the radio that you’re going to be promoted to the Joint Chiefs. Just movin’ on up, to the east side. To that deluxe apartment in the sky. You and George Jefferson.”

“That’s unimportant,” he made clear. “Not your concern.”

“I know. I’m just hired help. What’s important is that I get paid.”

“You did. Two hours ago. In full.”

“That’s good. I was thinking of a little vacation. Someplace warm.”

“Not until you deal with your new task.”

“You aim high, Admiral. Your latest goes straight into the White House.”

“Aiming high is the only way to achieve anything.”

“I need double the usual price for this one, half down, balance on completion.”

Didn’t matter to him how much it cost. “Done.”

“And there’s one more thing,” Smith said.

Something poked into his ribs, through his coat, from behind.

“Nice and easy, Langford,” a woman’s voice said. “Or I’ll shoot you before you move.”

Diane McCoy.

M
ALONE CHECKED THE PLANE’S CHRONOMETER—7:40 AM—AND
gazed out the flight deck at the panorama below. Antarctica reminded him of an upturned bowl with a chipped rim. A vast ice plateau almost two miles thick was bordered for at least two-thirds of its circumference by black jagged mountains lined with crevasse-ridden glaciers that flowed toward the sea—the northeast coast below no exception.

The pilot announced that they were making a final approach to Halvorsen Base. Time to prepare for landing.

“This is rare,” the pilot said to Malone. “Superb weather. You’re lucky. Winds are good, too.” He adjusted the controls and gripped the yoke. “You want to take us down?”

Malone waved him off. “No thanks. Way beyond me.” Though he’d landed fighter jets on tossing carriers, dropping a one-hundred-thousand-pound aircraft onto perilous ice was a thrill he could do without.

The brawl between Dorothea and Christl still concerned him. They’d behaved themselves the past few hours, but their bitter conflict could prove vexing.

The plane began a steep decline.

Though the attack had raised warning flags, something else he’d witnessed caused him even more concern.

Ulrich Henn had been caught off guard.

Malone had spotted the momentary confusion that swept Henn’s face before the mask rehardened. He clearly hadn’t expected what Dorothea had done.

The plane leveled and the engine’s turbines slackened.

The Hercules was equipped with landing skis and he heard the copilot confirm that they were locked. They continued to drop, the white ground growing in size and detail.

A bump. Then another.

And he heard the scrape of skis on crusty ice as they glided. No way to brake. Only friction would slow them. Luckily there was plenty of room to slide.

Finally the Hercules stopped.

“Welcome to the bottom of the world,” the pilot told everyone.

S
TEPHANIE STOOD FROM HER CHAIR. FORCE OF HABIT.

Davis did, too.

Daniels motioned for them to stay put. “It’s late and we’re all tired. Sit.” He grabbed a chair. “Thank you, Colonel. Would you make sure we’re not disturbed?”

Gross disappeared toward the front of the warehouse.

“You two look like hell,” Daniels said.

“Comes from watching a man’s head get blown off,” Davis said.

Daniels sighed. “I’ve seen that myself, once or twice. Two tours in Vietnam. Never leaves you.”

“A man died because of us,” Davis said.

Daniels’ lips tightened. “But Herbert Rowland is alive because of you.”

Little consolation, she thought, then asked, “How are you here?”

“Slipped out of the White House and rode
Marine One
straight south. Bush started that. He’d fly all the way to Iraq before anyone knew. We have
procedures
in place to accommodate that now. I’ll be back in bed before anyone knows I’m gone.” Daniels’ gaze drifted toward the refrigerator door. “I wanted to see what was in there. Colonel Gross told me, but I wanted to see.”

“It could change how we view civilization,” she said.

“It’s amazing.” And she could see that Daniels was genuinely impressed. “Was Malone right? Can we read the books?”

She nodded. “Enough to make sense.”

The president’s usual boisterous bearing seemed in check. She’d heard he was a notorious night owl, sleeping little. Staffers constantly complained.

“We lost the killer,” Davis said.

She caught the defeat in his tone. So different from the first time they’d worked together, when he’d tossed out an infectious optimism that had driven her into central Asia.

“Edwin,” the president said, “you’ve given this your best shot. I thought you were nuts, but you were right.”

Davis’ eyes were those of someone who’d given up expecting good news. “Scofield’s still dead. Millicent is still dead.”

“The question is, do you want their killer?”

“Like I said, we lost him.”

“See, that’s the thing,” Daniels said. “I found him.”

EIGHTY-THREE

MARYLAND

R
AMSEY SAT IN A RICKETY WOODEN CHAIR, HIS HANDS, CHEST, AND
feet bound with duct tape. He’d contemplated attacking McCoy outside but realized that Smith was surely armed—and he could not elude them both. So he’d done nothing. Bided his time. And hoped for a fumble.

Which may not have been smart.

They’d herded him into the house. Smith had lit a small camping stove that now provided weak illumination and welcome heat. Interesting how one section of the bedroom wall was swung open, the rectangle beyond pitch-black. He needed to know what these two wanted, how they’d joined forces, and how to appease them.

“This woman tells me that I’ve been added to the expendable list,” Smith said.

“You shouldn’t listen to people you don’t know.”

McCoy stood, propped against an open windowsill, holding a gun. “Who says we don’t know each other?”

“This isn’t hard to decipher,” he said to her. “You’re playing both ends against the middle. Did she tell you, Charlie, that she shook me down for twenty million?”

“She did mention something about that.”

Another problem.

He faced McCoy. “I’m impressed you identified Charlie and made contact.”

“Wasn’t all that hard. You think no one pays attention? You know cell phones can be monitored, bank transfers traced, confidential agreements between governments used to access accounts and records that no one else could get to.”

“I never realized I interested you so.”

“You wanted my help. I’m helping.”

He yanked on his restraints. “Not what I had in mind.”

“I offered Charlie half the twenty million.”

“Payable in advance,” Smith added.

Ramsey shook his head. “You’re an ungrateful fool.”

Smith lunged forward and raked the back of his hand across Ramsey’s face. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

“Charlie, I swear to you, this you’re going to regret.”

“Fifteen years I’ve done what you asked,” Smith said. “You wanted people dead. I made them dead. I know you’ve been planning something. I could always tell. Now you’re moving to the Pentagon. Joint Chiefs of Staff. What’s next? No way you’ll be satisfied and retire out. That’s not you. So I’ve become a problem.”

“Who said that?”

Smith pointed at McCoy.

“And you believe her?”

“She makes sense. And she did have twenty million dollars, because I now have half of it.”

“And we both have you,” McCoy said.

“Neither one of you has the guts to murder an admiral, the head of naval intelligence, nominee for the Joint Chiefs. Going to be tough to cover that one up.”

“Really?” Smith said. “How many people have I killed for you? Fifty? A hundred? Two hundred? I can’t even remember. Not a one of which has ever been tagged murder. I’d say cover-up is my specialty.”

Unfortunately the cocky little weasel was right, so he decided to try diplomacy. “What can I do to assure you, Charlie? We’ve been together a long time. I’m going to need you in the years ahead.”

Smith did not answer.

“How many women did he kill?” McCoy asked him.

Ramsey wondered about that question. “Does it matter?”

“Does to me.”

Then he realized. Edwin Davis. Her co-worker. “This about Millicent?”

“Did Mr. Smith here kill her?”

He decided to be honest and nodded.

“She was pregnant?”

“That’s what I was told. But who knows? Women lie.”

“So you just killed her?”

“Seemed the simplest way to end the problem. Charlie here was working for us in Europe. That’s when we first met. He handled the job well, and he’s been mine ever since.”

“I’m not yours,” Smith said, contempt in his voice. “I work for you. You pay me.”

“And there’s lots more money to be made,” the admiral made clear.

Smith stepped toward the open panel in the wall. “Leads down to a concealed cellar. Probably came in handy during the Civil War. Good place to hide things.”

He caught the message.
Like a body.

“Charlie, killing me would be a really bad idea.”

Smith turned and aimed his gun. “Maybe so. But it sure as hell will make me feel better.”

M
ALONE LEFT THE BRIGHT SUNSHINE AND ENTERED
H
ALVORSEN
Base, followed by the others. Their host, waiting for them on the ice when they’d deplaned into a blast of frigid air, was a swarthy, bearded Australian—stocky, robust, and seemingly competent—named Taperell.

The base comprised an assembly of high-tech buildings buried beneath thick snow, powered by a sophisticated solar and wind-of-the-art, Taperell said, then added, “You’re fortunate today. Only minus thirteen degrees Celsius. Bloody warm for this part of the world.”

The Aussie led them into a spacious wood-paneled room, filled with tables and chairs, that smelled of cooking food. A digital thermometer on the far wall read nineteen degrees Celsius.

“Hamburgers, chips, and drinks will be here in a tick,” Taperell said. “I thought you’d need some tucker.”

“I assume that means food,” Malone said.

Taperell smiled. “What else, mate?”

“Can we get going as soon as we eat?”

Their host nodded. “No worries, that’s what I was told. I have a chopper ready. Where you headin’?”

Malone faced Henn. “Your turn.”

Christl stepped forward. “Actually, I have what you need.”

S
TEPHANIE WATCHED AS
D
AVIS STOOD FROM HIS CHAIR AND ASKED
the president, “What do you mean, you found him?”

“I offered the vacancy on the Joint Chiefs to Ramsey today. I called him and he said yes.”

“I assume there’s a good reason you did that,” Davis said.

“You know, Edwin, we seem to stay twisted around. It’s like you’re the president and I’m the deputy national security adviser—and I say that with a special emphasis on the word
deputy.
”

“I know who’s the boss. You know who’s the boss. Just tell us why you’re here in the middle of the night.”

She saw that Daniels didn’t mind the brash insolence.

“When I went to Britain a few years ago,” the president said, “I was asked to join a foxhunt. Brits love that crap. Get all dressed up, early in the morning, mount a smelly horse, then take off following a bunch of howlin’ dogs. They told me how great it was. Except, of course, if you’re the fox. Then, it’s a bitch. Being the compassionate soul that I am, I kept thinking about the fox, so I passed.”

“Are we going hunting?” she asked.

She saw a twinkle in the president’s eye. “Oh, yes. But the great thing about this trek is, the foxes don’t know we’re coming.”

M
ALONE WATCHED AS
C
HRISTL UNFOLDED A MAP AND SPREAD IT
out on one of the tables. “Mother explained it to me.”

“And what made you so special?” Dorothea asked.

“I assumed she thought I’d keep a level head, though apparently she believes me to be a vengeful dreamer out to ruin our family.”

“Are you?” Dorothea asked.

Christl’s gaze bore into Dorothea. “I’m an Oberhauser. The last of a long line, and I plan to honor my ancestors.”

“How about we focus on the problem at hand,” Malone said. “The weather is great out there. Weneed to take advantage of that whilewe can.”

Christl had brought the newer map of Antarctica that Isabel had tempted him with in Ossau, the one she’d failed to unfold. Now he saw that all of the various continental bases were denoted, most along the coast, including Halvorsen.

“Grandfather visited here and here,” Christl said, pointing to spots marked 1 and 2. “His notes say that most of the stones he brought back come from Site 1, though he spent a great deal of time at Site 2. The expedition brought a cabin, disassembled, to erect somewhere to firmly stake Germany’s claim. They chose to build the cabin on Site 2, here, near the coast.”

Malone had asked Taperell to stay. He now faced the Aussie and said, “Where is that?”

“I know it. About fifty miles west of here.”

“It’s still there?” Werner asked.

“Deadset,” Taperell said. “She’ll be right—wood doesn’t rot here. That thing would be like the day they erected it. And especially there—the entire region is designated a protected area. A site of ‘special scientific interest’ under the Antarctica Conservation Act. You can only visit with an okay from Norway.”

“Why is that?” Dorothea asked.

“The coast belongs to seals. It’s a breeding area. No people allowed. The cabin sits in one of the inland dry valleys.”

“Mother says that Father told her he was taking the Americans to Site 2,” Christl said. “Grandfather always wanted to return and explore more, but was never allowed.”

“How do we
know
that’s the spot?” Malone asked.

He caught mischief in Christl’s eye. She reached back into her pack and retrieved a thin, colorful book titled in German. He silently translated.
A Visit to Neuschwabenland, Fifty Years Later.

“This is a picture volume published in 1988. A German magazine sent a film crew and a photographer. Mother came across it about five years ago.” She thumbed through, searching for a particular page. “This is the cabin.” She showed them a striking, two-page color image of a gray wooden structure set within a black rock valley, streaked with bright snow, dwarfed by bare gray mountains. She turned the page. “This is a shot of the inside.”

Malone studied the picture. Not much there. A table with magazines scattered on top, a few chairs, two bunks, packing crates adapted into shelving, a stove, and a radio.

Her amused eyes met his. “See anything?”

She was doing to him what he’d done to her in Ossau. So he accepted her challenge and carefully scanned the picture, as did the others.

Then he saw it. On the flooring. Carved into one of the planks.

He pointed. “The same symbol from the book cover found in Charlemagne’s tomb.”

She smiled. “This has to be the place. And there’s this.” She slid a folded sheet of paper from the book. A page from an old magazine, yellowed and brittle with a grainy black-and-white image from inside the cabin.