The Charlemagne Pursuit cm-4

by Steve Berry

  The mother of all scripts.

  The language of heaven.

  Utter nonsense, but the Nazis loved those romantic ideas. By 1931 ten thousand men were part of the SS, which Himmler eventually transformed into a racial elite of young Aryan males. Its Race and Settlement Office meticulously determined if an applicant was genetically fit for membership. Then, in 1935, Himmler went a step farther and created a brain trust dedicated to reconstructing a golden Aryan past.

  The trust's mission was twofold.

  Unearth evidence of Germany's ancestors back to the Old Stone Age, and convey those findings to the German people.

  A long label lent credibility to its supposed importance. Deutsches Ahnenerbe-Studiengesellschaft fur Geistesurgeschichte. German Ancestral Her itage-the Society for the Study of the History of Primeval Ideas. Or, more simply, the Ahnenerbe. Something inherited from the forefathers. One hundred thirty-seven scholars and scientists, another eighty-two filmmakers, photographers, artists, sculptors, librarians, technicians, accountants, and secretaries.

  Headed by Hermann Oberhauser.

  And while her grandfather toiled on fiction, Germans died by the millions. Hitler eventually fired him from the Ahnenerbe and publicly humiliated both him and the entire Oberhauser family. That was when he retreated here, to the abbey, safe behind walls that religion protected, and tried to rehabilitate himself.

  But never did.

  She remembered the day he died.

  "Papa." She knelt beside the bed and grasped his frail hand.

  The old man's eyes opened, but he said nothing. He'd long ago lost all memory of her.

  "It's never time to give up," she said.

  "Let me go ashore." The words came only upon his breath and she had to strain to hear him.

  "Papa, what are you saying?"

  His eyes glazed over, the oily glare disconcerting. He slowly shook his head.

  "You want to die?" she asked.

  "I must go ashore. Tell the captain."

  "What do you mean?"

  He shook his head again. "Their world. It is gone. I have to go ashore."

  She started to speak, to reassure him, but his grip relaxed and his chest fluttered. Then his mouth slowly opened and he said, "Heil… Hitler."

  Her spine tingled every time she thought of those final words. Why had he felt compelled, with his dying breath, to proclaim an allegiance to evil?

  Unfortunately, she would never know.

  The door to the subterranean room opened and the woman from the cable car returned. Dorothea watched as she strolled confidently through the displays. How had things come to this point? Her grandfather had died a Nazi, her father had perished a dreamer.

  Now she was about to repeat it all.

  "Malone's gone," the woman said. "He drove off. I need my money."

  "What happened on the mountain today? Your associate wasn't supposed to be killed."

  "Things blew out of hand."

  "You drew a lot of attention to something that wasn't supposed to be noticed."

  "It worked out. Malone came, and you were able to have that chat you wanted."

  "You may have jeopardized everything."

  "I did what you asked me to do and I want to be paid. And I want Erik's share. He definitely earned it."

  "His death means nothing to you?" she asked.

  "He overreacted and it cost him."

  Dorothea had quit smoking ten years ago, but she'd recently started again. Nicotine seemed to calm her constantly frayed nerves. She stepped to one of the painted cabinets, found a pack, and offered one to her guest.

  "Danke," the woman said, accepting.

  She knew from their first meeting that the woman smoked. She selected a cigarette for herself, found some matches, and lit both.

  The woman sucked two deep drags. "My money, please."

  "Of course."

  She watched as the eyes changed first. A pensive gaze was replaced by rushing fear, pain, then desperation. Muscles in the woman's face tightened, signaling agony. Fingers and lips released the cigarette and her hands reached for her throat. Her tongue sprang from her mouth and she gagged, sucking for air, and finding none.

  Her mouth foamed.

  She managed one last breath, coughed, and tried to speak, then her neck relaxed and her body collapsed.

  On the waft of her last exhale came a tinge of bitter almond.

  Cyanide. Skillfully laced into the tobacco.

  Interesting how the dead woman had worked for people she knew nothing about. Never once had she asked a single question. Dorothea had not made the same mistake. She'd thoroughly checked out her allies. The dead woman had been simple-money motivated her-but Dorothea could not risk a loose tongue.

  Cotton Malone? He could be a different story.

  Since something told her she wasn't done with him.

  FIFTEEN

  WASHINGTON, DC

  3:20 PM

  RAMSEY RETURNED TO THE NATIONAL MARITIME INTELLIGENCE Center, which housed naval intelligence. He was greeted inside his private office by his chief of staff, an ambitious captain named Hovey.

  "What happened in Germany?" Ramsey immediately asked.

  "The NR-1A file was passed to Malone on the Zugspitze, as planned, but then all hell broke loose on the cable ride down."

  He listened to Hovey's explanation of what happened, then asked, "Where's Malone?"

  "The GPS on his rental car has him all over the place. At his hotel for a while, then off to a place called Ettal Monastery. It's about nine miles north of Garmisch. Last report had him on the road back toward Garmisch."

  They'd wisely tagged Malone's car, which allowed the luxury of satellite monitoring. He sat at his desk. "What of Wilkerson?"

  "The SOB thinks he's smart as hell," Hovey said. "He loosely shadowed Malone, waited in Garmisch awhile, then drove to Fussen and met with some bookstore owner. He had two helpers in a car outside. They carted off boxes."

  "He gets under your skin, doesn't he?"

  "He's far more trouble than he's worth. We need to cut him loose."

  He'd sensed a certain distaste before. "Where'd you two cross paths?"

  "NATO headquarters. He almost cost me my captain's bars. Luckily my commanding officer hated the ass-kissing bastard, too."

  He had no time for petty jealousy. "Do we know what Wilkerson is doing now?"

  "Probably deciding who can help him more. Us or them."

  When he'd learned that Stephanie Nelle had acquired the court of inquiry report on NR-1A and its intended destination, he'd immediately sent freelancers to the Zugspitze, intentionally not informing Wilkerson of their presence. His Berlin station chief thought he was the only asset on the ground and had been instructed to keep a loose eye on Malone and report back. "Did Wilkerson call in?"

  Hovey shook his head. "Not a word."

  His intercom buzzed and he listened as his secretary told him that the White House was on the line. He dismissed Hovey and lifted the phone.

  "We have a problem," Diane McCoy said.

  "How do we have a problem?"

  "Edwin Davis is loose."

  "The president can't rein him in?"

  "Not if he doesn't want to."

  "You sense that?"

  "I managed to get Daniels to talk to him, but all he did was listen to some rant about Antarctica, then said 'have a nice day' and hung up."

  He asked for details and she explained what had happened. Then he asked, "Our inquiry about Zachary Alexander's file meant nothing to the president?"

  "Apparently not."

  "Perhaps we need to increase the pressure." Which was precisely why he'd dispatched Charlie Smith.

  "Davis has hitched his wagon to Stephanie Nelle."

  "She's a lightweight."

  The Magellan Billet liked to think it was a player in international espionage. No way. Twelve friggin' lawyers? Get real. None of them was worth a damn. Cotton Malone? He'd been different. But he was retired, concerned
only with his father. Actually, right now he should be pissed off, and nothing clouded judgment better than anger.

  "Nelle won't be a factor."

  "Davis went straight to Atlanta. He's not impulsive."

  Granted, but still, "He doesn't know the game, the rules, or the stakes."

  "You realize he's probably headed for Zachary Alexander?"

  "Anything else?"

  "Don't screw this up."

  She may have been the national security adviser, but he was no underling to be ordered about. "I'll try not to."

  "This is my ass, too. Don't forget that. You have a good day, Admiral."

  And she hung up.

  This was going to be dicey. How many balloons could he hold underwater at one time? He checked his watch.

  At least one of those balloons should pop shortly.

  He glanced to his desk at yesterday's New York Times and a story in the national section, concerning Admiral David Sylvian, a four-star and vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Thirty-seven years of military service. Fifty-nine years old. Currently hospitalized after a motorcycle accident a week ago thanks to black ice on a Virginia highway. He was expected to recover, but his condition was listed as serious. The White House was quoted as wishing the admiral well. Sylvian was a champion of eliminating waste and had totally rewritten Pentagon budgeting and procurement procedures. A submariner. Well liked. Respected.

  An obstacle.

  Ramsey had not known when his moment would come, but now that it had, he was ready. Over the past week, everything had dropped into place. Charlie Smith would handle things here.

  Time now for Europe.

  He reached for the phone and dialed an international number.

  The other line was answered after the fourth ring. He asked, "How's the weather there?"

  "Cloudy, cold, and miserable."

  The proper response. He was talking to right person. "Those Christmas parcels I ordered, I'd like them carefully wrapped and delivered."

  "Overnighted or regular postal?"

  "Overnighted. The holidays are fast approaching."

  "We can make that happen within the hour."

  "Wonderful."

  He hung up.

  Sterling Wilkerson and Cotton Malone would soon be dead.

  SIXTEEN

  WHITE OAK, VIRGINIA

  5:15 PM

  CHARLIE SMITH GLANCED AT THE TINY FLUORESCENT HANDS ON his collector's Indiana Jones watch, then stared out the windshield of the parked Hyundai. He'd be glad when spring returned and the time changed. He had some sort of psychological reaction to winter. It had started when he was a teenager, but worsened when he lived in Europe. He'd seen a story about the condition on Inside Edition. Long nights, little sun, frigid temperatures.

  Depressing as hell.

  The hospital's main entrance loomed a hundred feet away. The gray-stuccoed rectangle rose three stories. The file on the passenger seat lay open, ready for reference, but his attention returned to his iPhone and a Star Trek episode he'd downloaded. Kirk and a lizardlike alien were battling each other on an uninhabited asteroid. He'd seen every one of the original seventy-nine episodes so many times he usually knew the next line of dialogue. And speaking of babes, Uhura was definitely hot. He watched as the alien lizard cornered Kirk, but glanced away from the screen just as two people pushed through the front doors and walked toward a mocha-colored Ford hybrid.

  He compared the license plate with the file.

  The vehicle belonged to the daughter and her husband.

  Another man emerged from the hospital-midthirties, reddish hair-and headed for a zinc Toyota SUV.

  He verified the license plate. The son.

  An older woman followed. The wife. Her face matched the black-and-white photo in the file.

  What a joy to be prepared.

  Kirk ran like hell from the lizard, but Smith knew he wouldn't get far. A showdown was coming.

  Same as here.

  Room 245 should now be empty.

  He knew the hospital was a regional facility, its two operating rooms utilized around the clock, the emergency room accommodating EMS trucks from at least four other counties. Plenty of activity, all of which should allow Smith, dressed as an orderly, to easily move about.

  He left the car and strolled through the main entrance.

  The lobby reception desk was unoccupied. He knew the employee went off duty at five PM and would not to return until seven AM tomorrow. A few visitors strolled toward the parking lot. Visiting hours ended at five, but the file had reminded him that most people did not clear out until nearly six.

  He passed the elevators and followed shiny terrazzo to the far side of the ground floor, stopping in the laundry room. Five minutes later he confidently strode off the second-floor elevator, the rubber soles of his Nurse Mates silent on the shiny tile. The halls to his left and right were quiet, doors to the occupied rooms closed. The nurses' station directly ahead was occupied by two older women, who sat and worked on files.

  He carried an armful of neatly folded bedsheets. Downstairs in the laundry room he'd learned that rooms 248 and 250, the closest to 245, could use fresh sheets.

  The only difficult decisions he'd faced all day came when choosing what to upload on his iPhone and the actual means of death. Luckily, the hospital's main computer had provided convenient access to the patient's medical records. Though enough internal trauma was present to justify heart or liver failure-his two favorite mechanisms-low blood pressure seemed the doctors' current concern. Medication had already been prescribed to counter the problem, but a note indicated they were waiting for morning before administering the dosage to give the patient time to regain his strength.

  Perfect.

  He'd already checked Virginia's law on autopsies. Unless death resulted from an act of violence, via suicide, suddenly when in good health, unattended by a physician, or in any suspicious or unusual manner, there'd be no autopsy.

  He loved it when rules worked in his favor.

  He entered room 248 and tossed the sheets on the bare mattress. He quickly made the bed, tucking tight hospital corners. He then turned his attention across the hall. A gaze in both directions confirmed that all was quiet.

  With three steps he entered room 245.

  A low-wattage fixture tossed cool white light onto a papered wall. The heart monitor beeped. A respirator hissed. The nurses' station continuously monitored both, so he was careful not to upset either.

  The patient lay on the bed-skull, face, arms, and legs heavily bandaged. According to the records, when first brought in by ambulance and rushed into the trauma center, there had been a fractured skull, lacerations, and intestinal damage. Miraculously, though, the spinal cord had not been damaged. Surgery had taken three hours, mainly to repair internal injuries and stitch the lacerations. The blood loss had been significant, and, for a few hours, the situation teetered on the precarious. But hope eventually turned to promise and the official status was upgraded from serious to stable.

  Still, this man had to die.

  Why? Smith had no idea. Nor did he care.

  He snapped on latex gloves and found the syringe in his pocket. The hospital's computer had also provided the relevant stats so the hypodermic could be preloaded with the proper amount of nitroglycerin.

  A couple of squirts and he inserted the bevel-tipped needle into the Y-port receptacle for the intravenous bottle suspended next to the bed. There would be no danger of detection, since the nitro would metabolize within the body as the man died, leaving no traces.

  An instant death, though preferable, would set off monitors and bring nurses.

  Smith needed time to leave and knew that the death of Admiral David Sylvian would come in about half an hour.

  Any discovery of his presence then would be impossible, since he'd be far away, out of uniform, well on the way to his next appointment.

  SEVENTEEN

  GARMISCH

  10:00 PM

 
MALONE REENTERED THE POSTHOTEL. HE'D LEFT THE MONASTERY and driven straight back to Garmisch, his stomach twisted in knots. He kept visualizing the crew of NR-1A, trapped on the bottom of a frozen ocean, hoping somebody would save them.

  But nobody had.

  Stephanie had not called back and he was tempted to contact her, but realized that she'd call when there was something to say.

  The woman, Dorothea Lindauer, was a problem. Could her father really have been aboard NR-1A? If not, how would she have known the man's name from the report? Though the crew manifest had been part of the official press release issued after the sinking, he recalled no mention of a Dietz Oberhauser. The German's presence aboard the sub was apparently not for public consumption, regardless of the countless other lies that had been told.

  What was happening here?

  Nothing about this Bavarian sojourn seemed good.

  He trudged up the wooden staircase. Some sleep would be welcomed. Tomorrow he'd sort things through. He glanced down the hall. The door to his room hung ajar. Hopes of any respite vanished.

  He gripped the gun in his pocket and stepped lightly down the colorful runner that lined the hardwood flooring, trying to minimize squeaks that kept announcing his presence.

  The room's geography flashed through his mind.

  The door opened into an alcove that led straight ahead into a spacious bath. To the right was the main section that accommodated a queen-sized bed, a desk, a few side tables, a television, and two chairs.

  Perhaps the innkeepers had simply failed to close the door? Possible, but after today he wasn't taking any chances. He stopped and, with the gun, nudged the door inward, noticing that the lamps were switched on.