The Charlemagne Pursuit

by Steve Berry

  “What do you know of Langford Ramsey?” he asked.

  “I don’t like him. He thinks everyone is an idiot and that the intelligence business couldn’t survive without him.”

  “He’s served nine years as head of naval intelligence. That’s unheard of. But each time he’s come up for rotation, they’ve allowed him to stay.”

  “That a problem?”

  “Damn right it is. Ramsey has ambitions.”

  “You sound like you know him.”

  “More than I ever wanted to.”

  “Edwin, stop,” Millicent said.

  He was holding the phone, punching the numbers for the local police. She slipped the handset from his grasp and laid it in the cradle.

  “Leave it be,” she said.

  He stared into her dark eyes. Her gorgeous long brown hair hung tousled. Her face seemed as delicate as ever, but troubled. In so many ways they were alike. Smart, dedicated, loyal. Only in race were they different—she a beautiful example of African genes, he the quintessential white Anglo-Saxon Protestant. He’d been attracted to her within days of being assigned as Captain Langford Ramsey’s State Department liaison, working out of NATO headquarters in Brussels.

  He gently caressed the fresh bruise on her thigh. “He struck you.” He fought the next word. “Again.”

  “It’s his way.”

  She was a lieutenant, born of a navy family, fourth generation, and Langford Ramsey’s aide for the past two years.

  Ramsey’s lover for one of those.

  “Is he worth it?” he asked.

  She retreated from the phone, clutching her bathrobe tight. She’d called half an hour ago and asked him to come to her apartment. Ramsey had just left. He didn’t know why he always came when she called.

  “He doesn’t mean to do it,” she said. “His temper gets the best of him. He doesn’t like to be refused.”

  His gut hurt at the thought of them together, but he listened, knowing she had to relieve herself of false guilt. “He needs to be reported.”

  “It would solve nothing. He’s a man on the rise, Edwin. A man with friends. No one would care what I have to say.”

  “I care.”

  She appraised him with anxious eyes. “He told me that he would never do it again.”

  “He said that last time.”

  “It was my fault. I pushed him. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

  She sat on the sofa and motioned for him to sit beside her. When he did, she laid her head on his shoulder and, within a few minutes, drifted off to sleep.

  “She died six months later,” Davis said in a distant voice.

  Stephanie kept silent.

  “Her heart stopped. The authorities in Brussels said it was probably genetic.” Davis paused. “Ramsey had beaten her again, three days before. No marks. Just a few well-placed punches.” He went quiet. “I asked to be transferred after that.”

  “Did Ramsey know how you felt about her?”

  Davis shrugged. “I’m not sure how I felt. But I doubt he’d care. I was thirty-eight years old, working my way up in the State Department. The foreign service is a lot like the military. You take the assignments as they come. But like I said earlier, about the fake brother, I told myself if I ever was in a position to stick it up Ramsey’s ass, I would.”

  “What does Ramsey have to do with this?”

  Davis laid his head back.

  The plane swooped in for a landing.

  “Everything,” he said.

  EIGHTEEN

  BAVARIA

  10:30 PM

  WILKERSON DOWNSHIFTED THEVOLVO AND SLOWED.THE HIGHway was descending, on its way into a

  broad Alpine valley cut between more towering ranges. Snow appeared from the darkness, swept free from the

  windshield by the wipers. He was nine miles north of Füssen, in black Bavarian woods, not far from Linderhof, one of mad King Ludwig II’s fairy-tale castles.

  He came to a stop and turned onto a rocky lane that wound farther into the trees, a dreamy stillness surrounding him.

  The farmhouse came into view. Typical for the region. Gabled roof, bright colors, walls of stone, mortar, and wood.

  Green shutters for the ground-floor windows hung shut, just as he’d left them earlier in the day.

  He parked and exited the car.

  Snow crunched beneath his soles as he walked to the front door. Inside, he switched on a few lamps and stoked the fire he’d left smoldering in the hearth. He then returned to the car and toted the boxes from Füssen inside, storing them in a kitchen closet.

  That task was now completed.

  He retreated to the front door and stared out into the snowy night.

  He would have to report to Ramsey shortly. He’d been told that within a month he would be reassigned to Washington, inside naval intelligence headquarters, at a high administrative level. His name would be submitted in the next batch of officers hoping for flag rank and Ramsey had promised that, by then, he would be in a position to ensure a successful outcome.

  But would that be the case?

  He had no choice but to hope. Seemed his whole life lately was dependent on others.

  And nothing about that seemed good.

  Burning embers settled in the hearth with a hiss. He needed to retrieve a few fresh logs from the pile on the side of the house. A strong fire would be needed later.

  He opened the front door.

  An explosion rocked the night.

  Instinctively, he shielded his face from a sudden flash of intense light and a quick burst of searing heat. He looked up to see the Volvo ablaze, little left but the burning remnant of the undercarriage as flames devoured metal.

  He spied movement in the darkness. Two forms. Headed toward him. Carrying weapons.

  He slammed the door.

  Glass in one of the windows shattered and something thudded onto the plank floor. His gaze locked on the object. A grenade. Soviet configuration. He lunged forward into the next room just as the ordnance exploded. The lodge’s walls were apparently well constructed—the partition between the rooms diffused the blast—but he heard wind swirling in what was once a cozy den, the explosion surely annihilating an exterior wall.

  He managed to come to his feet and crouched down.

  Voices could be heard. Outside. Two men. One on either side of the house.

  “Check for a body,” one of them said in German.

  He heard pottering through the black rubble, and a flashlight beam pierced the darkness. The assailants were making no effort to mask their presence. He steadied himself against the wall.

  “Anything?” one of the men asked.

  “Nein.”

  “Move farther in.”

  He braced himself.

  A narrow beam of light plunged past the doorway. Then the flashlight itself entered the room, followed by a gun. He waited for the man to step inside, then grabbed for the weapon as he slammed his fist into the man’s jaw and wrenched the weapon free.

  The man staggered forward, flashlight still in hand. Wilkerson wasted no time. As his assailant regained his balance, he fired once into the man’s chest and readied the gun, as a new beam of light probed in his direction.

  A black object swished through the air and slammed to the floor.

  Another grenade.

  He dove over the top of a settee and rolled the sofa onto him just as the bomb exploded and debris rained down. More windows and wall were blown out and the night’s bitter cold invaded. The triangle formed by the upended settee had shielded him from the blast, and he thought he’d escaped the worst until he heard a crack and one of the ceiling beams crashed onto the settee.

  Luckily, he wasn’t pinned.

  The man with the flashlight crept closer.

  In the attack, Wilkerson had lost the gun, so he searched the darkness. Spotting it, he wiggled free and alligator-crawled forward.

  His assailant entered the room, picking his way over the debris.

  A b
ullet ricocheted off the floor just ahead of him.

  He scampered behind more rubble as another bullet searched for him. He was running out of options. The gun lay too far away. Cold wind parched his face. The flashlight beam found him.

  Damn. He cursed himself, then Langford Ramsey.

  A gun blast erupted.

  The flashlight beam jiggled, then its rays scattered in all directions.

  A body thudded to the floor.

  Then silence.

  He pushed himself up and spied a darkened form—tall, shapely, feminine—standing in the kitchen doorway, the outline of a shotgun in her arms.

  “Are you all right?” Dorothea Lindauer asked.

  “Nice shot.”

  “I saw you were having trouble.”

  He walked over to Lindauer and stared at her through the darkness.

  “I assume this resolves all doubts you might have about your Admiral Ramsey and his intentions?” she asked.

  He nodded. “From now on we’ll do this your way.”

  NINETEEN

  MALONE SHOOK HIS HEAD.TWINS?HE CLOSED THE DOOR.“IJUST met your sister. I wondered why she let

  me go so easily. You two just couldn’t speak to me together?”

  Christl Falk shook her head. “We don’t speak much.”

  Now he was puzzled. “Yet you’re obviously working together.”

  “No, we’re not.” Her English, unlike her sister’s, contained no hint of German.

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “She baited you today. Drew you in. I was wondering why. I planned to speak with you when you came down from the summit, but thought better after what happened.”

  “You saw?”

  She nodded. “Then I followed you here.”

  What the hell had he stumbled into?

  “I had nothing to do with what happened,” she made clear.

  “Except knowing about it, in advance.”

  “I only knew that you’d be there. Nothing else.”

  He decided to get to the point. “You want to know about your father, too?”

  “I do.”

  He sat on the bed and allowed his gaze to dart to the far side of the room and the built-in wooden seat beneath the windows, where he’d been talking to Stephanie when he’d spotted the woman from the cable car. The report on Blazek still lay where he left it. He wondered if his visitor had peeked.

  Christl Falk had made herself comfortable in one of the chairs. She wore a long-sleeved denim shirt and pleated khaki pants, both of which flattered her obvious contours. These two beautiful women, nearly identical in appearance, save for differing hairstyles—hers was shoulder-length, brushed smooth, falling free—seemed quite varied in personality.

  Where Dorothea Lindauer had conveyed pride and privilege, Christl Falk telegraphed struggle.

  “Did Dorothea tell you about Grandfather?”

  “I got a synopsis.”

  “He did work for the Nazis, heading up the Ahnenerbe.”

  “Such a noble endeavor.”

  She seemed to catch his sarcasm. “I agree. It was nothing more than a research institute to manufacture archaeological evidence for political purposes. Himmler believed Germany’s ancestors evolved far off, where they’d been some sort of master race. Then that supposed Aryan blood migrated to various parts of the world. So he created the Ahnenerbe—a mix of adventurers, mystics, and scholars—and set out to find those Aryans while eradicating everyone else.”

  “Which one was your grandfather?”

  She looked puzzled.

  “Adventurer, mystic, or scholar?”

  “All three, actually.”

  “But he apparently was a politician, too. He headed the thing, so he surely knew the Ahnenerbe’s true mission.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Grandfather only believed in the concept of a mythical Aryan race. Himmler manipulated his obsession into a tool for ethnic cleansing.”

  “That rationalization was used at the Nürnberg trials, after the war, with no success.”

  “Believe what you want, it’s not important to why I’m here.”

  “Which I’ve been waiting—rather patiently, I might add—for you to explain.”

  She folded one knee over the other. “Script and symbol studies were the Ahnenerbe’s main interest—looking for ancient Aryan messages. But in late 1935 Grandfather actually found something.” She motioned at her coat, which lay on the bed beside him. “In the pocket.”

  He reached inside and removed a book sheathed in a plastic bag. In size, shape, and condition it looked like the one from earlier, except no symbol was embossed on its cover.

  “Do you know about Einhard?” she asked.

  “I’ve read his Life of Charlemagne. ”

  “Einhard was from the eastern part of the Frankish kingdom, the portion that was distinctly German. He was educated at

  Fulda, which was one of the most impressive centers of learning in the Frankish land. He was accepted into the court of Charlemagne around 791. Charlemagne was unique for his time. Builder, political governor, religious propagandist, reformer, patron of the arts and science. He liked to surround himself with scholarly men, and Einhard became his most trusted adviser. When Charlemagne died in 814, his son Louis the Pious made Einhard his private secretary, too. But sixteen years later, Einhard retired from court when Louis and his sons started fighting. He died in 840 and was buried at Seligenstadt.”

  “You’re just a wealth of information.”

  “I hold three degrees in medieval history.”

  “None of which explains what the hell you’re doing here.”

  “The Ahnenerbe searched many places for those Aryans. Tombs were opened throughout Germany.” She pointed.

  “Inside Einhard’s grave, Grandfather found that book you’re holding.”

  “I thought this came from Charlemagne’s tomb?”

  She smiled. “I see Dorothea showed you her volume. That one did come from Charlemagne’s tomb. This one’s different.”

  He couldn’t resist. He slipped the ancient volume from the bag and carefully opened it. Latin filled the pages, along with examples of the same strange writing and odd art and symbols he’d seen earlier.

  “In the 1930s Grandfather found that book, along with Einhard’s last will and testament. By Charlemagne’s time, men of means were leaving written wills. In Einhard’s will, Grandfather discovered a mystery.”

  “And how do you know that it’s not more fantasy? Your sister didn’t speak too kindly of your grandfather.”

  “Which is another reason why she and I detest each other.”

  “And why are you so fond of him?”

  “Because he also found proof.”

  DOROTHEA KISSEDWILKERSON GENTLY ON THE LIPS.SHE NOTICEDthat he was still shaking. They stood in

  the ruins of the lodge and watched the car burn.

  “We’re in this together now,” she said.

  He surely realized that. And something else. No admiralty for him. She’d told him Ramsey was a snake, but he’d refused to believe her.

  Now he knew better.

  “A life of luxury and privilege can be a good substitute,” she told him.

  “You have a husband.”

  “In name only.” She saw he needed reassuring. Most men did. “You handled yourself well in the house.”

  He wiped sweat from his forehead. “I even managed to kill one of them. Shot him in the chest.”

  “Which shows you can handle things, when necessary. I saw them approaching the lodge when I was driving up. I parked in the woods and approached carefully while they made their initial assault. I was hoping you could hold them off until I found one of the shotguns.”

  The valley, stretching for kilometers in all directions, belonged to her family. No neighbors anywhere close.

  “And those cigarettes you gave me worked,” she said. “You were right about that woman. Trouble that needed

  eliminating.” />
  Compliments were working. He was calming down.

  “I’m glad you found that gun,” he said.

  Heat from the car fire warmed the freezing air. She still held the shotgun, reloaded and ready, but she doubted there’d be any more visitors tonight.