The Charlemagne Pursuit

by Steve Berry

  an occupational hazard of his new profession. Bookseller.

  She threw him a glare as she grabbed her skis and poles. “I plan to.”

  They left the terrace and walked back through the nearly deserted visitor center. Jessica headed for the lift that would take her down to the corrie. He headed for the cable car that would drop him ten thousand feet back to ground level.

  He stepped into the empty car, holding the envelope. He liked the fact that no one was aboard. But just before the doors closed, a man and woman rushed on, hand in hand. The attendant slammed the doors shut from the outside and the car eased from the station.

  He stared out the forward windows.

  Enclosed spaces were one thing. Cramped, enclosed spaces were another. He wasn’t claustrophobic. More a sense of freedom denied. He’d tolerated it in the past—having found himself underground on more than one occasion—but his discomfort was one reason why, years ago, when he joined the navy, unlike his father, he hadn’t opted for submarines.

  “Mr. Malone.”

  He turned.

  The woman stood, holding a gun.

  “I’ll take that envelope.”

  TWO

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  9:10 AM

  ADMIRALLANGFORDC. RAMSEY LOVED SPEAKING TO CROWDS. He’d first realized that he enjoyed the

  experience while at the Naval Academy and, over a career that now spanned forty-plus years, he’d constantly sought ways to feed his desire. He was speaking today to the national gathering of Kiwanians—a bit unusual for the head of naval intelligence. His was a clandestine world of fact, rumor, and speculation, an occasional appearance before Congress the extent of his public speaking. But lately, with the blessing of his superiors, he’d made himself more available. No charge, no expenses, no press restrictions. The larger the crowd the better.

  And there’d been many takers.

  This was his eighth appearance in the last month.

  “I came today to tell you about something I’m sure you know little about. It’s been a secret for a long time. America’s smallest nuclear submarine.” He stared out at the attentive crowd. “Now, you’re saying to yourself, Is he nuts? The head of naval intelligence is going to tell us about an ultrasecret submarine? ”

  He nodded.

  “That’s exactly what I plan to do.”

  “Captain, there’s a problem,” the helmsman said.

  Ramsey was dozing in and out of a light sleep behind the planesman’s chair. The sub’s captain, who sat next to him, roused himself and focused on the video monitors.

  Every external camera displayed mines.

  “Jesus, mother of God,” the captain muttered. “All stop. Don’t move this thing an inch.”

  The pilot obeyed the command and punched a sequence of switches. Ramsey may have been only a lieutenant, but he knew explosives became ultrasensitive when immersed in salt water for long periods. They were cruising the Mediterranean Sea’s floor, just off the French coast, surrounded by deadly remnants from World War II. A mere touch of the hull to one of the metallic spines and NR-1 would transform from top secret to totally forgotten.

  The boat was the navy’s most specialized weapon, the idea of Admiral Hyman Rickover, built in secret for a staggering one hundred million dollars. Only 145 feet long and 12 feet wide, with an eleven-man crew, the design was tiny by submarine standards, yet ingenious. Capable of diving to three thousand feet, the craft was powered by a one-of-a-kind nuclear reactor. Three viewing ports allowed external visual inspection. Exterior lighting supported television arrays. A mechanical claw could be used to recover items. A manipulator arm accommodated gripping and cutting tools. Unlike attack-class or missile boats, NR-1 was adorned with a bright orange sail, a flat superstructure deck, an awkward box keel, and numerous protuberances including two retractable Goodyear truck tires, filled with alcohol, that allowed it to drive along the seafloor.

  “Downward thrusters online,” the captain said.

  Ramsey realized what his captain was doing. Keeping the hull firmly on the bottom. Good thing. There were too many mines on the TV screens to count.

  “Prepare to blow main ballast,” the captain said. “I want to rise straight up. No side-to-side.”

  The conn was quiet, which amplified the whine of turbines, whooshes of air, squeals of hydraulic fluid, and bleeps of electronics that, only a short while ago, had acted on him like a sedative.

  “Nice and steady,” the captain said. “Hold her still as we rise.”

  The pilot gripped the controls.

  The boat had not been equipped with a steering wheel. Instead four sticks had been converted from fighter jets. Typical for NR-1. Though it was state-of the-art in power and concept, most of its equipment was Stone Age rather than Space Age. Food was prepared in a cheap imitation of an oven used on commercial planes. The manipulator arm was left over from another navy project. The navigation system, adapted from transatlantic airliners, barely worked underwater.

  Cramped crew quarters, a toilet that rarely did anything but clog, and only TV dinners, bought at a local supermarket before leaving port, to eat.

  “We had no sonar contact on those things?” the captain asked. “Before they appeared?”

  “Zero,” one of the crew said. “They just materialized out of the darkness ahead of us.”

  Compressed air rushed into the main ballast tanks and the sub rose. The pilot kept both hands on the controls, ready to use thrusters to adjust their position.

  They’d only need to rise a hundred feet or so to be clear.

  “As you can see, we made it out of that minefield,” Ramsey told the crowd. “That was the spring of 1971.” He nodded.

  “That’s right, a long time ago. I was one of the fortunate to have served on NR-1.”

  He saw the look of amazement on faces.

  “Not many people know about the sub. It was built in the mid 1960s in total secrecy, hidden even from most admirals at the time. It came with a bewildering array of equipment and could dive three times deeper than any other vessel. It carried no name, no guns, no torpedoes, no official crew. Its missions were classified, and many remain so to this day.

  What’s even more amazing, the boat is still around—now the navy’s second oldest serving submersible, on active duty since 1969. Not as secret as it once was. Today it has both military and civilian uses. But when human eyes and ears are needed deep in the ocean, it’s NR-1’s mission to go. You remember all those stories about how America tapped into transatlantic telephone cables and listened in on the Soviets? That was NR-1. When an F-14 with an advanced Phoenix missile fell into the ocean in 1976, NR-1 recovered it before the Soviets could. After the Challenger disaster, it was NR-1 that located the solid rocket booster with the faulty O-ring.”

  Nothing grabbed an audience better than a story, and he had plenty from his time on that unique submersible. Far from a technological masterpiece, NR-1 had been plagued with malfunctions and was ultimately kept afloat simply because of its crew’s ingenuity. Forget the manual— innovation was their motto. Nearly every officer who’d served aboard went on to higher command, himself included. He liked that he could now talk about NR-1, all part of the navy’s plan to up recruitment by spouting success. Veterans, like him, could tell the tales, and people, like those now listening from their breakfast tables, would repeat his every word. The press, which he’d been told would be in attendance, would ensure even greater dissemination. Admiral Langford Ramsey, head of the Office of Naval Intelligence, in a speech before the national Kiwanians, told the audience . . .

  He had a simple view of success.

  It beat the hell out of failure.

  He should have retired two years ago, but he was the highest-ranking man of color in the US military, and the first confirmed bachelor ever to rise to flag rank. He’d planned for so long, been so careful. He kept his face as steady as his voice, his brow untroubled, and his candid eyes soft and impassive. He’d charted his enti
re naval career with the precision of an undersea navigator. Nothing would be allowed to interfere, especially when his goal was in sight.

  So he gazed out at the crowd and employed a confident voice, telling them more stories.

  But one problem weighed on his mind.

  A potential bump in the road.

  Garmisch.

  THREE

  GARMISCH

  MALONE STARED AT THE GUN AND KEPT HIS COMPOSURE. HE’Dbeen a bit tough on Jessica. Apparently his

  guard had been down, too. He motioned with the envelope. “You want this? Just some Save the Mountain brochures I promised my Greenpeace chapter I’d post. We get extra credit for field trips.”

  The cable car continued to drop.

  “Funny man,” she said.

  “I considered a career in stand-up comedy. Think it was a mistake?” Situations like this were precisely why he’d retired. Before taxes, an agent for the Magellan Billet made $72,300 a year. He cleared more than that as a bookseller, with none of the risks.

  Or so he thought.

  Time to think like he once had.

  And play for a fumble.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  She was short and squat, her hair some unflattering combination of brown and red. Maybe early thirties. She wore a blue wool coat and gold scarf. The man wore a crimson coat and seemed obedient. She motioned with the gun and told her accomplice, “Take it.”

  Crimson Coat lurched forward and jerked the envelope away.

  The woman momentarily glanced at the rocky crags flashing past the moisture-laden windows. Malone used that instant to sweep out his left arm and, with a balled fist, pop the gun’s aim away.

  She fired.

  The report stung his ears and the bullet exploded through one of the windows.

  Frigid air rushed in.

  He slammed a fist into the man, knocking him back. He cupped the woman’s chin in his gloved hand and banged her head into a window. Glass fractured into a spiderweb.

  Her eyes closed and he shoved her to the floor.

  Crimson Coat sprang to his feet and charged. Together they pounded into the far side of the car, then dropped to the damp floor. Malone rolled in an attempt to free himself from a throat grip. He heard a murmur from the woman and realized that soon he would have two to deal with again, one of them armed. He opened both palms and slapped his hands against the man’s ears. Navy training had taught him about ears. One of the most sensitive body parts. The gloves were a problem, but on the third pop the man yelped in pain and released his grip.

  Malone propelled his attacker off him with a leg thrust and leaped to his feet. But before he could react, Crimson Coat plunged an arm over Malone’s shoulder, his throat again clamped tight, his face forced against one of the panes, freezing condensation chilling his cheek.

  “Stay still,” the man ordered.

  Malone’s right arm was wrenched at an awkward angle. He struggled to free himself but Crimson Coat was strong.

  “I said stay still.”

  He decided, for the moment, to obey.

  “Panya, are you all right?” Crimson Coat was apparently trying to draw the woman’s attention.

  Malone’s face remained pressed to the glass, eyes facing ahead, toward where the car was descending.

  “Panya?”

  Malone spied one of the steel trestles, maybe fifty yards away, approaching fast. Then he realized that his left hand was jammed against what felt like a handle. They’d apparently ended their struggle against the door.

  “Panya, answer me. Are you all right? Find the gun.”

  The pressure around his throat was intense, as was the lock on his arm. But Newton was right. For every action there was an opposite and equal reaction.

  The spindly arms of the steel trestle were almost upon them. The car would pass close enough to reach out and touch the thing.

  So he wrenched the door handle up and slid the panel open, simultaneously swinging himself out into the frozen air.

  Crimson Coat, caught off guard, was thrown from the car, his body smacking the trestle’s leading edge. Malone gripped the door handle in a stranglehold. His assailant fell away, crushed between the car and the trestle.

  A scream quickly faded.

  He maneuvered himself back inside. A cloudy plume erupted with each breath. His throat went bone-dry.

  The woman struggled to her feet.

  He kicked her in the jaw and returned her to the floor.

  He staggered forward and stared toward the ground.

  Two men in dark overcoats stood where the cable car would stop. Reinforcements? He was still a thousand feet high.

  Below him spread a dense forest that ambled up the mountain’s lower slopes, evergreen branches thick with snow. He noticed a control panel. Three lights flashed green, two red. He stared out the windows and saw another of the towering trestles coming closer. He reached for the switch labeledANHALTEN and flipped the toggle down.

  The cable car lurched, then slowed, but did not fully stop. More Isaac Newton. Friction would eventually end forward momentum.

  He grabbed the envelope from the beside the woman and stuffed it under his coat. He found the gun and slid it into his pocket. He then stepped to the door and waited for the trestle to draw close. The car was creeping but, even so, the leap would be dicey. He estimated speed and distance, led himself, then plunged toward one of the crossbeams, gloved hands searching for steel.

  He thudded into the grid and used his leather coat for cushion.

  Snow crunched between his fingers and the beam.

  He clamped tight.

  The car continued its descent, stopping about a hundred feet farther down the cable. He stole a few breaths, then wiggled himself toward a ladder rising on the support beam. Dry snow fluttered away, like talcum, as he continued a hand-over-hand trek. At the ladder, he planted his rubber soles onto a snowy rung. Below, he saw the two men in dark coats race from the station. Trouble, as he’d suspected.

  He descended the ladder and leaped to the ground.

  He was five hundred feet up the wooded slope.

  He trudged his way through the trees, finding an asphalt road that paralleled the mountain’s base. Ahead stood a brown-shingled building hemmed by snow-covered bushes. A work post of some sort. Beyond was more black asphalt, cleared of snow. He trotted to the gate leading to the fenced enclosure. A padlock barred entrance. He heard an engine groaning up the inclined road. He retreated behind a parked tractor and watched as a dark Peugeot rounded a curve and slowed, inspecting the enclosure.

  Gun in hand, he readied himself for a fight.

  But the car sped away and continued upward.

  He spotted another narrow path of black asphalt that led through the trees, down to ground level and the station.

  He trotted toward it.

  High above, the cable car remained stopped. Inside lay an unconscious woman in a blue coat. A dead man wearing a crimson coat waited somewhere in the snow.

  Neither was his concern.

  His problem?

  Who knew his and Stephanie Nelle’s business?

  FOUR

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  7:45 AM

  STEPHANIENELLE GLANCED AT HER WATCH. SHE’D BEEN WORKINGin her office since a little before seven

  am, reviewing field reports. Of her twelve lawyer-agents, eight were currently on assignment. Two were in Belgium, part of an international team tasked with convicting war criminals. Two others had just arrived in Saudi Arabia on a mission that could become dicey. The remaining four were scattered around Europe and Asia.

  One, though, was on vacation.

  In Germany.

  By design, the Magellan Billet was sparsely staffed. Besides her dozen lawyers, the unit employed five administrative assistants and three aides. She’d insisted that the regiment be small. Fewer eyes and ears meant fewer leaks, and over the fourteen years of the Billet’s existence, to her knowledge, never had its security been
compromised.

  She turned from the computer and pushed back her chair.

  Her office was plain and compact. Nothing fancy—that wouldn’t fit her style. She was hungry, having skipped

  breakfast at home when she awoke, two hours ago. Meals seemed to be something she worried about less and less. Part of living alone—part of hating to cook. She decided to grab a bite in the cafeteria. Institutional cuisine, for sure, but her growling stomach needed something. Maybe she’d treat herself to a midday meal out of the office—broiled seafood or something similar.