by Steve Berry
SEVENTY-THREE
ASHEVILLE
STEPHANIE WAS JARRED FROM HER SLEEP BY THE BEDSIDE PHONE.She glanced at the digital clock. 5:10 AM. Davis lay on the other queen bed, also fully clothed, sleeping. Neither of them had even bothered to unmake their bed before lying down.
She snatched up the receiver, listened for a moment, then sat up."Say that again."
"The man in custody is named Chuck Walters. We've verified that through fingerprints. He has a record, mostly petty stuff, nothing that relates here. He lives and works in Atlanta. We checked his alibi. Witnesses place him in Georgia two nights ago. No question. We interviewed them all and it checks out."
She cleared her head. "Why'd he run?"
"He said a man came charging after him. He's been sleeping with a married woman the past few months and thought it was her husband. We checked with the woman and she confirmed the affair. When Davis approached him, he freaked and ran. When you shot at him he really freaked and tossed the bowling pin. He didn't know what was happening. Then Davis beat the crap out of him. He says he's going to sue."
"Any chance he's lying?"
"Not that we can see. This guy is no professional assassin."
"What was he doing in Asheville?"
"His wife threw him out two days ago, so he decided to come up here. That's all. Nothing sinister."
"And, I assume, the wife confirmed all that."
"That's what we get paid for."
She shook her head. Dammit.
"What do you want me to do with him?"
"Let him go. What else?"
She hung up the phone and said, "It's not him."
Davis was sitting on the side of his bed. The realization dawned within them both at the same time.
Scofield.
And they rushed for the door.
CHARLIE SMITH HAD BEEN PERCHED IN THE TREE FOR NEARLY AN hour. Winter engulfed the limbs with aromatic resin, the thick needles ideal cover among a cluster of tall pines. The early-morning air was bitingly cold, an abundance of moisture only magnifying his discomfort. Thankfully, he'd dressed warmly and chosen his spot with care.
The show last night inside Biltmore house had been classic. He'd organized the charade with great style and watched as the woman not only took the bait, but swallowed the line, rod, reel, and the whole damn boat. He'd needed to know if he was walking into a trap, so he'd called Atlanta and found the operative, whom he'd employed before on other jobs. His instructions had been clear. Watch for a signal and then draw attention to himself. Smith had noticed the man and woman from the lobby earlier when they'd stepped onto the bus that transported the tour group from the inn to the chateau. He'd suspected they might be his problem but, once inside the house, he'd come to know for sure. So he'd given the signal and his man had given an Oscar-worthy performance. He'd stood on the far side of the enormous Christmas tree, in the banquet hall, and watched as all hell broke loose.
His orders to the operative had been clear. No weapons. Do nothing except run. Let them catch you, then plead ignorance. He'd made sure that his man possessed a clean alibi for his whereabouts two nights ago, since he knew everything would be double-checked. The fact that his helper was indeed experiencing marital problems and sleeping with a married woman only aided in the alibi and provided the perfect reasons for fleeing.
All in all, the spectacle had played itself out with perfection.
Now he'd come to finish the job.
STEPHANIE BANGED ON THE DOOR FOR THE CONFERENCE COORDINATOR, and her summons was finally answered. The front desk had provided them the room number.
"Who the hell are-"
Stephanie flashed her identification. "Federal agents. We need to know where that hunt is located this morning."
The woman hesitated a second, then said, "It's on the estate, about twenty minutes from here."
"A map," Davis said. "Draw it, please."
SMITH WATCHED THE HUNTING PARTY THROUGH A PAIR OF BINOCULARS he'd purchased yesterday afternoon at a nearby Target. He was glad he'd kept the rifle from Herbert Rowland's house. It contained four rounds, more than enough. Actually, he'd only need one.
Hunting wild hogs certainly was not for everyone. He knew a little about the sport. Hogs were mean, nasty, and tended to inhabit only densely vegetated areas, off the beaten path. The file on Scofield indicated that he loved hog hunting. When Smith learned yesterday about this jaunt, his mind had quickly formulated the perfect way to eliminate his target.
He looked around. The environment was ideal. Plenty of trees. No houses. Dense woods for miles. Wreaths of mist encircled the forested peaks. Fortunately, Scofield did not bring any dogs-they would have posed a problem. He'd learned from the conference staff that the participants always met at a staging area about three miles from the inn, near the river, and followed a well-marked route. No guns. Only bows and arrows. And they didn't necessarily come back with a hog. More private time with the professor, talking shop, enjoying a winter's morning in the woods. So he'd arrived two hours ago, well before dawn, and made his way down the trail, finally deciding on the highest and best location, near the start of the trek, hoping he'd get an opportunity.
If not, he'd improvise.
STEPHANIE DROVE AND DAVIS NAVIGATED. THEY'D SPED AWAY FROM the inn, west into the 8,000 acres that made up the Biltmore Estate. The road was a narrow, unlined asphalt lane that eventually crossed the French Broad River and entered thick forest. The conference coordinator had said the hunt's staging area was not far past the river, and the trail into the woods would be easy to follow.
She caught sight of cars ahead.
Once she'd parked in a clearing they sprang from the car. A pale hint of dawn touched the sky. Her face was chilled by the damp air.
She spotted the trail and ran.
SMITH CAUGHT SIGHT OF ORANGE AMONG THE WINTER FOLIAGE, maybe a quarter mile away. He was ensconced on a limb, braced against a pine trunk. A blowing wind swept past under what was slowly developing into an azure December sky, crisp and chilling.
Through field glasses, he watched as Scofield and his party trudged north. He'd gambled as to their ultimate route, hoping they would stay on the trail. Now, with Scofield in sight, that chance had paid off.
He looped the binoculars' strap across a protruding branch and cradled the rifle, focusing through a long-range scope. He would have preferred to work more unnoticed, using a high-pressure sound suppressor, but he hadn't brought one of his own and they were illegal to purchase. He gripped the wooden stock and patiently waited for his quarry to draw close.
Just a few more minutes.
STEPHANIE RACED AHEAD, PANIC FIRING THROUGH HER IN SHARP bursts. She kept her eyes trained ahead, searching the woods for movement. Her breath tore at her lungs.
Wouldn't they all be wearing bright vests?
Was the killer out here?
SMITH GLIMPSED MOVEMENT BEHIND THE HUNTING PARTY. HE grabbed the binoculars and focused on the two from last night, rushing ahead, maybe fifty yards behind on a winding trail.
Apparently, his ruse had only partially worked.
He envisioned what would happen after Scofield died. A hunting accident would be immediately assumed, though the two intrepid souls closing the gap would scream murder. There'd be an inquiry by the local sheriff's department and the state department of natural resources. Investigators would measure, photograph, and search, angles and trajectories would be noted. Once it was realized the bullet came from above, the trees would come under scrutiny. But hell, there were tens of thousands of those around.
Which ones would they search?
Scofield stood five hundred yards away, his two saviors closing. In a few moments, they'd make a turn on the trail and spot their target.
He refocused through the rifle scope.
Accidents happen all the time. Hunters mistake one another for game.
Four hundred yards away.
Even when they wear fluorescent orange vests.
The ri
fle's crosshairs filled with his objective.
The shot needed to be in the chest. But the head would eliminate the necessity of a second round.
Three hundred yards.
Those two being here were a problem, but Ramsey expected Dr. Douglas Scofield to die today.
He squeezed the trigger.
The rifle barked across the valley and Scofield's head erupted.
So the chance would have to be taken.
SEVENTY-FOUR
OSSAU, FRANCE
1:20 PM
MALONE HAD READ ENOUGH OF CHRISTL'S TRANSLATION TO KNOW that he must go to Antarctica. If he had to take along four passengers, then so be it. Einhard had obviously experienced something extraordinary, something that had also enthralled Hermann Oberhauser. Unfortunately, the old German had sensed his impending doom and returned the book to where it had sat for twelve hundred years in the hope that his son might make the return journey. Yet Dietz had failed and had taken the crew of NR-1A down with him. If there was a chance in hell of finding that sunken sub, he had to take it.
They'd spoken to Isabel and told her what they'd found.
Christl was completing the translation, polishing her effort, making sure they possessed accurate information.
So he stepped from the inn into a frigid afternoon, and walked toward Ossau's central square, each step like a crisp Styrofoam squeak on the fresh snow. He'd brought his phone and, while he walked, dialed Stephanie's number. She answered on the fourth ring and said, "I've been waiting to hear from you."
"That doesn't sound good."
"Being played for a fool never is." He listened as she told him about the past twelve hours and what had happened at Biltmore Estate. "I watched the man's skull be blown off."
"You tried to tell him not to go, but he wouldn't listen. No trace of the shooter?"
"A lot of woods between us and him. No way to find him. He chose his spot well."
He understood her frustration but noted, "You still have a trail to Ramsey."
"It's more like he has us."
"But you know the connection. He has to make a mistake at some point. And you said Daniels told you that Diane McCoy went to Fort Lee, and Ramsey visited there yesterday. Think, Stephanie. The president didn't tell you that for nothing."
"I thought the same thing."
"I think you know your next move."
"This sucks, Cotton. Scofield is dead because I wasn't thinking."
"Nobody said it's fair. The rules are tough and the consequences tougher. Like you'd tell me. Do your job and don't sweat it, but don't screw up again."
"The student teaching the teacher?"
"Something like that. Now I need a favor. A big one."
STEPHANIE PHONED THE WHITE HOUSE. SHE'D LISTENED TO MALONE'S request and told him to stand by. She agreed. It had to be done. She also agreed that Danny Daniels was plotting.
She'd dialed a private line directly to the chief of staff. When he answered, she explained her need. A few moments later the president came on the line and asked, "Scofield's dead?"
"And it's our fault."
"How's Edwin?"
"Mad as hell. What are you and Diane McCoy doing?"
"Not bad. I thought I hid that one good."
"No, Cotton Malone is the bright one. I was just smart enough to listen to him."
"It's complicated, Stephanie. But let's just say I wasn't as confident in Edwin's approach as I'd like to be and, it seems, I was right."
She couldn't argue. "Cotton needs a favor, and it relates to this."
"Go ahead."
"He's connected Ramsey, NR-1A, Antarctica, and that warehouse at Fort Lee. Those rocks with the writing on them-he found a way to read them."
"I've been hoping that would happen," Daniels said.
"He's e-mailing a translation program. I suspect that's the reason NR-1A went in 1971-to learn more about those rocks. Now Malone needs to go to Antarctica. Halvorsen Base. Immediately. With four passengers."
"Civilians?"
"Afraid so. But they're part of the deal. They have the site location. No them, no location. He'll need air and ground transportation and equipment. He thinks he may be able to solve the NR-1A mystery."
"We owe him this one. Done."
"Back to my question, what are you and Diane McCoy doing?"
"Sorry. Presidential privilege. But I need to know, are you going to Fort Lee?"
"Can we use that private jet that brought the Secret Service here?"
Daniels chuckled. "Yours for the day."
"Then yes, we'll go."
MALONE SAT ON A FROZEN BENCH AND WATCHED KNOTS OF PEOPLE pass by, everyone laughing, full of festivity. What was waiting in Antarctica? Impossible to say. But for some reason he feared it.
He sat alone, his emotions as brittle and cold as the air around him. He barely remembered his father, but there'd never been a day since he was ten years old that he hadn't thought of the man. When he'd joined the navy, he'd met many of his father's contemporaries and quickly learned that Forrest Malone had been a highly respected officer. He'd never felt any pressure to measure up-perhaps because he'd never known the standard-but he'd been told that he was a lot like him. Forthright, determined, loyal. He'd always considered that a compliment, but damn if he didn't want to know the man for himself.
Unfortunately, death intervened.
And he was still angry at the navy for lying.
Stephanie and the court of inquiry report had explained some of the reasons for that deception. The secrecy of NR-1A, the Cold War, the mission's uniqueness, the fact that the crew agreed to no rescue. But none of that was satisfactory. His father died on a foolhardy venture searching for nonsense. Yet the US Navy had sanctioned that folly and a bold cover-up.
Why?
His phone vibrated in his hand.
"The president has okayed everything," Stephanie said when he answered. "There's usually lots of prep and procedures that have to be followed before anyone goes to Antarctica-training, vaccinations, medical exams-but he's ordered them suspended. A helicopter is on its way to you now. He wishes you well."
"I'll send the translation program by e-mail."
"Cotton, what do you hope to find?"
A deep breath calmed his jangled nerves. "I'm not sure. But there's a few of us here who have to make the journey."
"Sometimes ghosts are better left alone."
"I don't recall you believing that a couple of years ago, when the ghosts were yours."
"What you're about to do. It's dangerous, in more ways than one." His face was cast down at the snow, phone to his ear. "I know."
"Careful with this one, Cotton."
"You, too."
SEVENTY-FIVE
FORT LEE, VIRGINIA
2:40 PM
STEPHANIE DROVE A RENTAL CAR OBTAINED AT THE RICHMOND airport, where the Secret Service jet had landed after its quick flight from Asheville. Davis sat beside her, his face and ego still bruised. He'd been played twice for an idiot. Once years ago by Ramsey with Millicent, and yesterday by the man who'd skillfully murdered Douglas Scofield. The local police were treating the death as a homicide, solely on information Stephanie and Edwin had provided, though not a trace of an assailant had been found. Both of them realized that the killer was long gone, their task now to determine where. But first they needed to see what all the ruckus was about.
"How do you plan to get into that warehouse?" she asked Davis. "Diane McCoy didn't manage."
"I don't think that's going to be a problem."
She knew what or, more accurately, who that meant.
She approached the base's main gate and stopped at the security point. To the uniformed sentry, she presented their identifications and said, "We have business with the base commander. Classified."
The corporal retreated into his gate station and quickly returned, holding an envelope. "This is for you, ma'am."
