The Charlemagne Pursuit cm-4

by Steve Berry

  "What are you waiting for, sister?" Christl called out. "Come and get me."

  MALONE REENTERED THE BACK CORRIDORS OF THE BATH HALL and heard Christl call out to Dorothea. He turned left, which seemed the direction from which the words had come, and made his way down another long corridor that eventually spilled into a room forty feet ahead. He advanced, watchful of open doorways to his left and right. He gave a quick glance inside each as he kept moving. More storage and work spaces. Nothing of interest in any of the gloomy alcoves.

  In the next to last one he halted.

  Someone lay on the floor.

  A man.

  He entered the room.

  The face was of a middle-aged Caucasian, with short rust-brown hair. He lay prone, arms at his side, feet stretched straight, like some human form of petrified rock, a blanket flat beneath him. He wore an orange navy regulation jumpsuit with the name johnson stitched to his left pocket. His mind made the connection. EM2 Jeff Johnson, Ship's Electrician. NR-1A.

  His heart gave a sudden leap.

  The seaman seemed to have simply lain down and allowed the cold to steal over him. Malone had been taught in the navy that no one froze to death. Instead, as cold air enveloped bare skin, vessels near the surface constricted, reducing heat loss, forcing blood to vital organs. Cold hands, warm heart, was more than a cliche. He recalled the warning signs. First a tingling, a stinging, a dull ache, then numbness and finally a sudden whitening. Death came once the body's core temperature fell and vital organs shut down.

  Then you froze.

  Here, in a world with no moisture, the body should have been perfectly preserved, but Johnson had not been so lucky. Black scraps of dead skin hung from his cheeks and chin. Mottled yellow scabs caked his face, some hardened into a grotesque mask. His eyelids had frozen shut, ice clinging to the lashes, and his last breaths were condensed into two icicles that hung from his nose to his mouth, like the tusks of a walrus.

  Anger at the US Navy swelled inside him. The sorry no-good SOBs let these men die.

  Alone.

  Helpless.

  Forgotten.

  He heard footsteps and retreated back to the hall, glancing right just as Dorothea appeared in the last room, then disappeared through another doorway.

  He let her go ahead.

  Then followed.

  NINETY-ONE

  Smith stared down at the woman. She lay still in the bed. He'd waited for her to pass out, the effects of the alcohol working as the perfect sedative. She'd drunk a lot, more than usual, celebrating what she thought would be a marriage to a rising captain in the US Navy. But she'd chosen the wrong beau. Captain Langford Ramsey had no desire to marry her. Instead he wanted her dead, and he'd paid handsomely for that to happen.

  She was lovely. Long, silky hair. Smooth, dark skin. Beautiful features. He folded back the blanket and studied her naked frame. She was thin and shapely, offering no sign of the pregnancy he'd been told existed. Ramsey had provided him with her naval medical records, which indicated an irregular heartbeat that had required two treatments over the past six years. Hereditary, most likely. Low blood pressure was also a concern.

  Ramsey had promised him more work if this job went smoothly. He liked the fact they were in Belgium, as he'd found Europeans far less suspicious than Americans. But it shouldn't matter. The cause of the woman's death would be untraceable.

  He found the syringe and decided the armpit would be the best injection point. A tiny hole would remain, but hopefully it would go unnoticed-absent an autopsy. Even if an autopsy occurred, there'd be nothing in the blood or tissue to find.

  Just a tiny hole under the arm.

  He gently grasped her elbow and inserted the needle.

  Smith recalled exactly what happened that night in Brussels, but wisely decided not to share any details with the man standing six feet away.

  "I'm waiting," Davis said.

  "She died."

  "You killed her."

  He was curious. "Is all this about her?"

  "It's about you."

  He didn't like the bitter edge in Davis' voice, so he declared again, "I'm leaving."

  STEPHANIE WATCHED AS DAVIS CHALLENGED THEIR CAPTOR. SMITH might not want to kill them, but he certainly would if need be.

  "She was a good person," Davis said. "She didn't have to die."

  "You should have had this conversation with Ramsey. He's the one who wanted her dead."

  "He's the one who beat the crap out of her all the time."

  "Maybe she liked it?"

  Davis advanced forward, but Smith halted him with the rifle. Stephanie knew that with a single pull of the trigger not much of Davis would be left.

  "You're an edgy one," Smith said.

  Davis' eyes were suffused with hate. He seemed to hear and see only Charlie Smith.

  But she caught movement behind Smith, outside the bare window frame, past the covered front porch, where bright sunshine was soothed by the winter cold.

  A shadow.

  Moving closer.

  Then a face peered inside.

  Colonel William Gross.

  She saw that McCoy had spotted him, too, and wondered why Gross didn't just shoot Smith. Surely he was armed and, apparently, McCoy had known the colonel was out there-two guns flying out the window had certainly conveyed the message that they needed help.

  Then it occurred to her.

  The president wanted this one alive.

  He didn't necessarily want a lot of attention drawn to this situation-hence there wasn't a cadre of FBI and Secret Service here-but he wanted Charlie Smith in one piece.

  McCoy gave a slight nod.

  Smith caught the gesture.

  His head whirled.

  DOROTHEA LEFT THE BUILDING AND DESCENDED A SET OF NARROW stairs back to the street. She was next to the bathhouse, beyond the plaza that stretched out in front, near the cavern's end and one of the polished rock walls that rose hundreds of meters.

  She turned right.

  Christl was thirty meters away, running through a gallery of alternating light and dark that caused her to appear and disappear.

  She pursued.

  Like chasing a deer in the forest. Give it room. Allow it to think itself safe. Then strike when least expected.

  She passed through the light gallery and entered another plaza, similar to the one before the bathhouse in size and shape. Empty, except for a stone bench upon which a figure sat. He wore a white cold-weather suit similar to her own, except his was unzipped in front, arms exposed, the top half rolled down to the waist, exposing a chest clothed only in a wool sweater. His eyes were dark hollows in a shallow face, the lids closed. His frozen neck had craned to one side, his dark hair brushing the tops of ashen white ears. An iron-gray beard was streaked with congealed moisture and a blissful grin danced across closed lips. His hands were folded peacefully before him.

  Her father.

  Her nerves racked into numbness. Her heart pounded. She wanted to look away, but couldn't. Corpses were meant to be entombed, not sitting on benches.

  "Yes, it's him," Christl said.

  Her attention swung back to the danger around her, but she did not see her sister, only heard her.

  "I found him earlier. He's been waiting for us."

  "Show yourself," she said.

  A laugh permeated the silence. "Look at him, Dorothea. He unzipped his coat and allowed himself to die. Can you imagine?"

  No, she couldn't.

  "That took courage," the disembodied voice said. "To hear Mother speak, he had no courage. To hear you speak, he was a fool. Could you have done that, Dorothea?"

  She spotted another of the tall gates, framed by square columns, sealed with bronze doors, these swung open, no metal bar holding them shut. Beyond, steps led down and she felt a breeze of cold air.

  She stared back at the dead man.

  "Our father."

  She whirled. Christl stood perhaps seven meters away, with a gun pointed.


  She stiffened her arm and started to raise her weapon.

  "No, Dorothea," Christl said. "Keep it down."

  She did not move.

  "We found him," Christl said. "We solved Mother's quest."

  "This resolves nothing between us."

  "I totally agree.

  "I was right," Christl said, "About every single thing. And you were wrong."

  "Why did you kill Henn and Werner?"

  "Mother sent Henn to stop me. Loyal Ulrich. And Werner? Seems you'd be glad he's gone."

  "You plan to kill Malone, too?"

  "I have to be the only one who walks from here. The lone survivor."

  "You're insane."

  "Look at him, Dorothea. Our precious father. The last time we saw him we were ten years old."

  She didn't want to look. She'd seen enough. And she wanted to remember him as she'd known him.

  "You doubted him," Christl said.

  "So did you."

  "Never."

  "You're a murderess."

  Christl laughed. "Like I care what you think of me."

  There was no way she could raise her gun and shoot before Christl pulled her trigger. Since she was dead anyway, she decided to act first.

  Her arm started up. Christl pulled the gun's trigger. Dorothea braced herself to be shot. But nothing happened. Only a click.

  Christl seemed shocked. She worked the trigger more, but to no avail.

  "No bullets," Malone said, as he entered the plaza. "I'm not a complete idiot."

  Enough.

  Dorothea pointed and fired.

  The first shot caught Christl square in the chest, piercing her thick arctic wear. The second bullet, also in the chest, challenged her sister's balance. The third shot, to the skull, caused her forehead to burst red, but the frigid cold instantly coagulated the blood.

  Two more shots and Christl Falk sank to the pavement.

  Not moving.

  Malone came closer.

  "It had to be done," she muttered. "She was no good."

  Her head turned toward her father. She felt as if she were awakening from an anesthetic, some thoughts clearing, others remaining cloudy and distant. "They actually made it here. I'm glad he found what he'd been searching for."

  She faced Malone and saw that a frightening salvation had seeped into his thoughts, too. The exit portal drew both of their attention. She didn't have to say it. She'd found her father. He hadn't.

  Not yet.

  NINETY-TWO

  STEPHANIE QUESTIONED THE WISDOM OF MCCOY'S WARNING. Smith, unsettled, had stepped back and swung around, trying to focus on them while sneaking a peek at the window.

  More shadows fluttered outside.

  Smith fired a short burst that obliterated the brittle walls, shattering the wood with jagged wounds.

  McCoy lunged toward him.

  Stephanie feared he might shoot her, but instead he whirled the rifle around and jammed the butt hard into her stomach. She buckled forward, gasping for breath, and he thrust a knee upward into her chin, flipping her to the floor.

  Instantly, before either Stephanie or Davis could react, Smith releveled the gun and alternated his focus between them and the window, probably trying to decide where the greater threat lay.

  Nothing moved outside.

  "Like I said, I wasn't interested in killing you three," Smith said. "But I think that's changed."

  McCoy lay on the floor, moaning in the fetal position, cradling her stomach.

  "Can I see about her?" Stephanie asked.

  "She's a big girl."

  "I'm going to see about her."

  And without waiting for further permission, she knelt beside McCoy.

  "You're not leaving here," Davis said to Smith.

  "Brave words."

  But Charlie Smith seemed unsure, as if he were trapped inside a cage, staring out for the first time.

  Something thudded against the outer wall, near the window. Smith reacted, swinging the HK53 around. Stephanie tried to stand, but he popped her square in the neck with the rifle's metal stock.

  She gasped and found the floor.

  Her hand went to her Adam's apple-the pain of a kind she'd never felt before. She struggled to breathe, fighting an urge to choke. She rolled and watched as Edwin Davis catapulted himself into Charlie Smith.

  She struggled to stand, fighting both to breathe and to overcome the throbbing in her throat. Smith still clung to his assault rifle, but it was useless as he and Davis rolled through the battered furniture, ending against the far wall. Smith used his legs and tried to wiggle free, keeping a grip on his gun.

  Where was Gross?

  Smith lost the rifle, but his right arm wrapped around Davis and a new gun appeared-a small automatic-jammed into Davis' neck.

  "Enough," Smith yelled.

  Davis stopped struggling.

  They came to their feet and Smith released his grip, shoving Davis to the floor near McCoy.

  "You're all crazy," Smith said. "Friggin' nuts."

  Stephanie slowly came to her feet, shaking a fog from her brain, as Smith regripped the assault rifle. This had gyrated out of control. The one thing she and Davis had agreed on during the drive over was not to agitate Smith.

  Yet Edwin had done just that.

  Smith retreated to the window and quickly peered out. "Who is he?" "Mind if I look?" she managed to say.

  He nodded his assent.

  She slowly approached and spotted Gross, lying on the porch, his right leg bleeding from a bullet wound. He seemed conscious, but in extreme pain.

  He works for McCoy, she mouthed.

  Smith's gaze searched beyond the porch, to the brown grassy meadow and thick woods. "Who's a lying bitch."

  She gathered her strength. "But she did pay you ten million."

  Smith clearly did not appreciate her levity.

  "Tough choices, Charlie? Always you made the call when to kill. Your choice. Not this time."

  "Don't be so sure. Get back over there."

  She did as told but couldn't resist, "And who moved Ramsey?"

  "You need to shut the hell up," Smith said, continuing to snatch glimpses out the window.

  "I'm not letting him go," Davis muttered.

  McCoy rolled onto her back and Stephanie saw the pained look on her colleague's face.

  Coat… pocket, McCoy's lips said, without a sound.

  MALONE DESCENDED STEPS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PORTAL feeling as if he were walking to his execution. Tingles of fright-unusual for him-danced down his spine.

  Below stretched a huge cavern, most of its walls and ceiling ice, casting the same bluish light across the orange sail of a submarine. The hull was short, rounded, with a flat superstructure atop, and totally encased by ice. More of the tile pavement looped from the staircase around to the cavern's far side four to five feet above the ice.

  Some sort of wharf, he concluded.

  Perhaps this harbor had once opened to the sea?

  Ice caves existed all across Antarctica, and this one loomed long enough to accommodate multiple submarines.

  Moved by a common impulse, they both walked. Dorothea held her gun and so did he, though the only threat to either of them now was the other.

  The rock portion of the cavern's wall was polished smooth and adorned similarly to the inside of the mountain, with symbols and writing. Stone benches lined the wall base. On one sat a shadow. Malone closed his eyes and hoped it was only an apparition. But when he opened them, the ghostly figure remained.

  He sat upright, like the others, back straight. He wore a khaki naval shirt and pants, the trousers tucked into laced boots, an orange cap lying on the bench beside him.

  Malone inched his way closer.

  His senses reeled. His sight went dim.

  The face was the same as the picture back in Copenhagen, next to the glass case with the flag the navy had handed his mother at the memorial ceremony, the one she'd refused to accept. Long, equine nose. Prot
ruding jaw. Freckles. Gray-blond crew cut. Eyes open, staring, as if in deep communion.

  Shock paralyzed his body. His mouth parched.

  "Your father?" Dorothea asked.

  He nodded, and self-pity pierced him-a sharp arrow that drove down his throat, into his gut, as if he'd been skewered.

  His nerves stretched taut.

  "They just died," she said. "No coats. No protection. As if they sat down and welcomed it."

  Which, he knew, was exactly, what they'd done. No sense prolonging the agony.

  He noticed papers lying in his father's lap, the pencil writing as fresh and clear as it must have been thirty-eight years ago. The right hand rested atop them, as if making sure they would not be lost. He slowly reached out and slid them free, feeling as if he was violating a sacred site.

  He recognized the heavy script as his father's.

  His chest ballooned. The world seemed both dream and reality. He fought against a reservoir of unlocked grief. Never had he cried. Not when he married, or when Gary was born, or when his family disintegrated, or when he learned that Gary was not his biological son. To suppress a growing urge, he reminded himself that tears would freeze before they left his eyes.

  He forced his mind to focus on the pages he held.

  "Could you read them out loud?" Dorothea asked. "They could affect my father, too."

  SMITH NEEDED TO KILL ALL THREE OF THEM AND GET OUT OF HERE. He was working with no information after trusting a woman he knew he shouldn't have trusted. And who had moved Ramsey's body? He'd left it in the bedroom, intent on burying the corpse somewhere on the property.

  Yet somebody had taken it below.

  He gazed out the window and wondered if there was anybody else out there. Something told him that they were not alone.

  Just a feeling.

  Which he had no choice but to follow.

  He gripped the rifle and readied himself to turn and fire. He'd take out the three inside with a short burst, then finish off the one outside.

  Leave the damn bodies.

  Who cared? He'd bought the property under an assumed name with false identification, paying cash, so there was nobody to find.

  Let the government worry about the cleanup.