by Steve Berry
"Hardly. They're a myth. But that myth may have a basis in reality. Take Crete and Troy. They were long considered fictional, but we now know them to be real."
"So what happened to this first civilization?"
"Unfortunately, every culture contains the seeds of its own destruction. Progress and decay coexist. History has shown that all societies eventually develop the means of their downfall. Look at Babylon, Greece, Rome, the Mongols, Huns, Turks, and too many monarchical societies to even count. They always do it to themselves. Civilization One was no exception."
What she said made sense. Man truly did seem to destroy as much as he created.
"Grandfather and Father both were obsessed with this lost civilization. I must confess, I'm drawn to it, too."
"My bookshop is loaded with New Age materials about Atlantis and a dozen other so-called lost civilizations, not a trace of which has ever been found. It's fantasy."
"War and conquest have taken their toll on human history. It's a cyclical process. Progress, war, devastation, then reawakening. There's a sociological truism. The more advanced the culture, the more easily it will be destroyed, and the less evidence of it will remain. In more simplistic terms, we find what we look for."
He slowed the car. "No, we don't. Most times we stumble onto things."
She shook her head. "The greatest human revelations have all started with a simple theory. Look at evolution. It was only after Darwin formulated his concepts that we started noticing things that fortified the theory. Copernicus proposed a radical new way to view the solar system, and when we finally looked we found out he was right. Before the last fifty years no one seriously believed that an advanced civilization could have preceded us. It was regarded as nonsense. So the evidence has simply been neglected."
"What evidence?"
She removed Einhard's book from her pocket. "This."
March 800. Charlemagne rides north from Aachen. He's never before ventured to the Gallic Sea at this time of year, when frigid northern winds pound the shore and fishing is poor. But he insists on this journey. Three soldiers and I accompany him, and the journey takes the better part of a day. Once there, camp is set in the usual location, beyond the dunes, which offers little protection from a strong gale. Three days after arriving sails are seen and we think the boats Danes or part of the Saracenic fleet that threatens the empire north and south. But eventually the king shouts in joy and waits on the beach as the ships raise their oars and smaller boats row ashore carrying the Watchers. Uriel, who rules over Tartarus, leads them. With him are Arakiba, who is over the spirits of men, and Raguel who takes vengeance on the world of luminaries, and Danel, who is set over the best part of mankind and chaos, and Saraqael, who is set over spirits. They wear thick mantles, fur trousers, and fur boots. Their fair hair is neatly trimmed and combed. Charlemagne clasps each in a firm embrace. The king asks many questions and Uriel answers. The king is allowed onto the ships, each fashioned of sturdy timbers and caulked with tar, and he marvels at their sturdiness. We are told they are built away from their land, where trees grow in abundance. They love the sea and understand its ways far better than we do. Danel displays for the king maps of places we do not know exist and we are told how their ships find their way. Danel shows us a piece of sharp iron, resting on a sliver of wood, floating in a shell of water, that points the way over the sea. The king wants to know how that could be and Danel explains that the metal is attracted to one particular direction and he motioned north. No matter how the shell is turned the iron point always finds that direction. They visit for three days and Uriel and the king talk at length. I strike a friendship with Arakiba, who acts as counselor for Uriel, as I do for the king. Arakiba tells me of his land, where fire and ice live together, and I tell him that I would like to see that place.
"The Watchers are what Einhard called the people from Civilization One," she said. "Holy Ones is another term he uses. Both he and Charlemagne thought them from heaven."
"Who says they were anything other than a culture we already know exists?"
"Do you know of any society that used an alphabet or language like the one you saw in Dorothea's book?"
"That isn't conclusive proof."
"Was there an oceangoing society in the ninth century? Only the Vikings. But these weren't Vikings."
"You don't know who they were."
"No, I don't. But I do know that Charlemagne ordered the book Dorothea showed you buried with him. It was apparently important enough that he wanted it kept from everyone, except emperors. Einhard went to a lot of trouble to hide this book. Suffice it to say that there is more in here that explains why the Nazis really went to Antarctica in 1938, and why our fathers went back in 1971."
The abbey rose ahead, still illuminated against the limitless night.
"Park over there," she said, and he wheeled in and stopped.
Still no one following them.
She popped open her door. "Let me show you what, I'm sure, Dorothea didn't."
TWENTY-THREE
WASHINGTON, DC
8:20 PM
RAMSEY LOVED THE NIGHT. HE CAME ALIVE EACH DAY AROUND six PM, his best thoughts and most decisive actions always formulated after dark. Sleep was necessary, though usually no more than four to five hours-just enough to rest his brain, but not enough to waste time. Nighttime also provided privacy, since it was much easier to know if someone was interested in your business at two in the morning as opposed to two in the afternoon. That was why he only met with Diane McCoy at night.
He lived in a modest Georgetown town house that he rented from a longtime friend who liked having a four-star admiral as a tenant. He electronically swept the two floors for monitoring devices at least once a day-and especially before Diane paid a visit.
He'd been fortunate that Daniels had selected her as national security adviser. She was certainly qualified, with degrees in international relations and global economics, and politically connected with both the left and right. She'd come from State as part of the shakeup last year when Larry Daley's career abruptly ended. He'd liked Daley-a negotiable soul-but Diane was better. Smart, ambitious, and determined to stick around longer than the three years left on Daniels' last term.
Thankfully, he could offer her that chance.
And she knew it.
"Things are starting," he said.
They were comfortable in his den, a fire crackling in the brick hearth. Outside, the temperature had dropped to the midtwenties. No snow yet, but it was on the way.
"Since I know little of what those things are," McCoy said, "I can only assume they're good."
He smiled. "What about on your end? Can you make the appointment happen?"
"Admiral Sylvian isn't gone yet. He's banged up from that motorcycle accident, but is expected to recover."
"I know David. He's going to be down for months. He won't want his job unattended during that time. He'll resign." He paused. "If he doesn't succumb first."
McCoy smiled. She was a placid blonde with a capable air and eyes that beamed with confidence. He liked that about her. Modest bearing. Simple. Cool. Yet dangerous as hell. She sat, back straight, in the chair and nursed a whiskey soda.
"I almost believe you can make Sylvian's death happen," she said.
"What if I can?"
"Then you'd be a man worthy of respect."
He laughed. "The game we're about to play has no rules and only one objective. To win. So I want to know about Daniels. Will he cooperate?"
"That's going to depend on you. You know he's no fan, but you're also qualified for the job. Assuming, of course, there's a vacancy to fill."
He caught her suspicion. The initial plan was simple: Eliminate David Sylvian, secure his spot on the Joint Chiefs of Staff, serve three years, then start phase two. But he needed to know, "Will Daniels follow your advice?"
She sipped more of her drink. "You don't like not being in control, do you?"
"Who does?"
"Dani
els is the president. He can do what he pleases. But I think what he does here depends on Edwin Davis."
He didn't want to hear that. "How could he be a factor? He's a deputy adviser."
"Like me?"
He caught her resentment. "You know what I mean, Diane. How could Davis be a problem?"
"That's your flaw, Langford. You tend to underestimate your enemy."
"How is Davis my enemy?"
"I read the report on Blazek. Nobody named Davis died in that sub. He lied to Daniels. There was no older brother killed."
"Did Daniels know that?"
She shook her head. "He didn't read the inquiry report. He told me to do it."
"Can't you control Davis?"
"As you so wisely note, we're on the same level. He has as free access to Daniels as I do, per the president's order. It's the White House, Langford. I don't make the rules."
"What about the national security adviser? Any help there?"
"He's in Europe and not in the loop on this one."
"You think Daniels is working directly with Davis?"
"How the hell would I know? All I know is Danny Daniels isn't a tenth as stupid as he wants everyone to believe he is."
He glanced at the mantel clock. Soon the airwaves would be filled with the news of Admiral David Sylvian's untimely death, attributable to injuries sustained in a tragic motorcycle accident. Tomorrow another death in Jacksonville, Florida, might be a local news story. Much was happening, and what McCoy was saying troubled him.
"Involving Cotton Malone in this could also be problematic," she said.
"How? The man's retired. He just wants to know about his father."
"That report should not have been given to him."
He agreed, but it shouldn't matter. Wilkerson and Malone were most likely dead. "We just used that foolishness to our advantage."
"I have no idea how that was to our advantage."
"Just know that it was."
"Langford, am I going to regret this?"
"You're welcome to serve out Daniels' term, then go to work for some think tank writing reports that nobody reads. Ex-White House staffers look great on the letterhead, and I hear they're paid well. Maybe one of the networks would hire you to spout out ten-second sound bites on what other people are doing to change the world. Pays good, too, even if you look like an idiot most of the time."
"Like I said. Am I going to regret this?"
"Diane, power has to be taken. There's no other way to acquire it. Now, you never answered me. Will Daniels cooperate and appoint me?"
"I read the Blazek report," she said. "I also did some checking. You were on Holden when it went to Antarctica to search for that sub. You and two others. The top brass sent your team under classified orders. In fact, that mission is still classified. I can't even learn about it. I did discover that you went ashore and filed a report on what you found, delivered personally, by you, to the chief of naval operations. What he did with the information, nobody knows."
"We didn't find anything."
"You're a liar."
He gauged her assault. This woman was formidable-a political animal with excellent instincts. She could help and she could hurt. So he shifted. "You're right. I am lying. But believe me, you don't want to know what really happened."
"No, I don't. But whatever it is may come back to haunt you."
He'd thought the same thing for thirty-eight years. "Not if I can help it."
She seemed to be restraining a surge of annoyance at his avoidance of her inquiries. "It's been my experience, Langford, that the past always has a way of returning. Those who don't learn, or can't remember it, are doomed to repeat it. Now you have an ex-agent involved-a damn good one, I might add-who has a personal stake in this mess. And Edwin Davis is on the loose. I have no idea what he's doing-"
He'd heard enough. "Can you deliver Daniels?"
She paused, taking in his rebuke, then slowly said, "I'd say that all depends on your friends on Capitol Hill. Daniels needs their help on a great many things. He's doing what every president does at the end. Thinking legacy. He has a legislative agenda so, if the right members of Congress want you on the Joint Chiefs, then he'll give it to them-in return, of course, for votes. The questions are easy. Will there be a vacancy to fill, and can you deliver the right members?"
He'd talked enough. There were things to do before he slept. So he ended the meeting on a note Diane McCoy should not forget. "The right members will not only endorse my candidacy, they'll insist on it."
TWENTY-FOUR
ETTAL MONASTERY
1:05 AM
MALONE WATCHED AS CHRISTL FALK UNLOCKED THE DOOR FOR the abbey church. Clearly, the Oberhauser family had considerable pull with the monks. It was the middle of the night and they were coming and going as they pleased.
The opulent church remained dimly lit. They crossed the darkened marble floor with only their leather heels echoing across the warm interior. His senses were alert. He'd learned that empty European churches, at night, tended to be a problem.
They entered the sacristy and Christl headed straight for the portal that led down into the abbey's bowels. At the bottom of the stairs, the door at the far end of the corridor hung ajar.
He grabbed her arm and shook his head, signaling that they should advance with caution. He gripped the gun from the cable car and kept close to the wall. At the end of the hallway he peered inside the room.
Everything was askew.
"Maybe the monks are pissed?" he said.
The stones and wood carvings lay scattered on the floor, the displays in total disarray. Tables at the far end had been toppled. The two wall cabinets had been rifled through.
Then he saw the body.
The woman from the cable car. No visible wounds or blood, but he caught a familiar scent in the still air.
"Cyanide."
"She was poisoned?"
"Look at her. She choked on her tongue."
He saw that Christl didn't want to look at the corpse.
"I can't take that," she said. "Dead bodies."
She was becoming upset, so he asked, "What did we come to see?"
She seemed to grab hold of her emotions and her gaze raked the debris. "They're gone. The stones from Antarctica that Grandfather found. They're not here."
He didn't see them, either. "Are they important?"
"They have the same writing on them as the books."
"Tell me what I don't know."
"This is not right," she muttered.
"You could say that. The monks are going to be a little upset, regardless of your family's patronage."
She was clearly flustered.
"Are the stones all we came to see?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No. You're right. There's more." She stepped toward one of the gaily decorated cabinets, its doors and drawers open, and glanced inside. "Oh, my."
He came up behind her and saw that a hole had been hacked into the rear panel, the splintered opening large enough for a hand to pass through.
"Grandfather and Father kept their papers there."
"Which somebody seems to have known."
She inserted her arm. "Empty."
Then she rushed for the door.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"We have to hurry. I only hope we're not too late."
RAMSEY SWITCHED OFF THE LIGHTS ON THE GROUND FLOOR AND climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Diane McCoy was gone. He'd considered several times expanding their collaboration. She was attractive in body and brain. But he'd decided that it was a bad idea. How many men of power had been brought down by a piece of ass? Too many to even recall, and he did not intend to join that list.
Clearly, McCoy had been concerned about Edwin Davis. He knew Davis. Their paths had crossed years ago in Brussels with Millicent, a woman he'd enjoyed, many times. She, too, was bright, young, and eager. But also- "Pregnant," Millicent said.
He'd heard her the first time. "What do you
want me to do about it?"
"Marrying me would be good."
"But I don't love you."
She laughed. "Yes, you do. You just won't admit it."
"No, actually, I don't. I enjoy sleeping with you. I enjoy listening to you tell me about what goes on in the office. I enjoy picking your brain. But I don't want to marry you."
She snuggled close. "You'd miss me if I were gone."
He was amazed at how seemingly intelligent women could care so little about their self-respect. He'd struck this woman too many times to count, yet she never fled, almost as if she liked it. Deserved it. Wanted it. A few jabs right now would do them both good, but he decided patience would serve him better, so he held her in a tight embrace and softly said, "You're right. I would miss you."
Less than a month later, she was dead.
Within a week, Edwin Davis was gone, too.
Millicent had told him how Davis always came when she called and helped her through his constant rejection. Why she confessed such things, he could only guess. It was as if his knowing might prevent him from hurting her again. Yet he always did, and she always forgave him. Davis never said a word, but Ramsey many times saw hatred in the younger man's eyes-along with the frustration that came from his utter inability to do anything about it. Davis then was a low-level State Department employee on one of his first foreign assignments, his job to resolve problems not create them-to keep his mouth shut and his ears open. But now Edwin Davis was a deputy national security adviser to the president of the United States. Different time, different rules. He has free access to Daniels, as I do, per the president's order. That's what McCoy had said. She was right. Whatever Davis was doing involved him. No proof existed for the conclusion, just a feeling, one he'd learned long ago to never doubt.
