The Charlemagne Pursuit

  He opened the folder and reacquainted himself with the details.

  Amazing how a public persona could be so different from the private person. He wondered how politicos maintained their façades. It had to be difficult. Urges and desires pointed one way—career and image jerked them another.

  Senator Aatos Kane was a perfect example.

  Fifty-six years old. A fourth-termer from Michigan, married, three children. A career politician since his midtwenties, first at the state level then in the US Senate. Daniels had considered him for vice president when a vacancy came available last year, but Kane had declined, saying that he appreciated the White House’s confidence but believed he could serve the president better by staying in the Senate. Michigan had breathed a sigh of relief. Kane was rated by several congressional watchdog groups as one of Congress’s most effective purveyors of pork barrel legislation.

  Twenty-two years on Capitol Hill had taught Aatos Kane all of the right lessons.

  And the most important?

  All politics were local.

  Ramsey smiled. He loved negotiable souls.

  Dorothea Lindauer’s question still rang in his ears. Is there anything there to find? He hadn’t thought about that trip to Antarctic in years.

  How many times had they gone ashore?

  Four?

  The ship’s captain—Zachary Alexander—had been an inquisitive sort, but, per orders, Ramsey had kept their mission secret. Only the radio receiver his team brought on board had been tuned to NR-1A’s emergency transponder. No signal had ever been heard by monitoring stations in the Southern Hemisphere. Which had made the ultimate cover-up easier. No radiation had been detected. It was thought that a signal and radiation might be more discernible closer to the source. In those days ice had a tendency to wreak havoc with sensitive electronics. So they’d listened and monitored the water for two days as Holden patrolled the Weddell Sea, a place of howling winds, luminous purple clouds, and ghostly halos around a weak sun.

  Nothing.

  Then they’d taken the equipment ashore.

  “What do you have?” he asked Lt. Herbert Rowland.

  The man was excited. “Signal bearing two hundred and forty degrees.”

  He stared out across a dead continent swathed in a mile-thick shroud of ice. Eight degrees below zero and nearly summer. A signal? Here? No way. They were six hundred yards inland from where they’d beached their boat, the terrain as flat and broad as the sea; it was impossible to know if water or earth lay below. Off to the right and ahead, mountains rose like teeth over the glittery white tundra.

  “Signal definite at two hundred and forty degrees,” Rowland repeated.

  “Sayers,” he called out to the third member of the team.

  The remaining lieutenant was fifty yards ahead, checking for fissures. Perception was a constant problem. White snow, white sky, even the air was white with constant breath clouds. This was a place of mummified emptiness, to which the human eye was little better adjusted than pitch darkness.

  “It’s the damn sub,” Rowland said, his attention still on the receiver.

  He could still feel the absolute cold that had enveloped him in that shadowless land where palls of gray-green fog materialized in an instant. They’d been plagued by bad weather, low ceilings, dense clouds, and constant wind. During every Northern Hemisphere winter he’d experienced since, he’d compared its ferocity with the intensity of an ordinary Antarctic day. Four days he’d spent there—four days he’d never forgotten.

  You can’t imagine, he’d told Dorothea Lindauer in answer to her question.

  He stared down into the safe.

  Beside the folders lay a journal.

  Thirty-eight years ago naval regulations required that commanding officers on all seagoing vessels maintain one.

  He slid the book free.

  THIRTY

  ATLANTA, 7:22 AM

  STEPHANIE ROUSEDEDWINDAVIS FROM A SOUND SLEEP. HE CAMEup with a start, at first disoriented until

  he realized where he lay.

  “You snore,” she said.

  Even through a closed door and down the hall, she’d heard him during the night.

  “So I’m told. I do that when I’m really tired.”

  “And who tells you that?”

  He swiped the sleep from his eyes. He lay on the bed fully dressed, his cell phone beside him. They’d arrived back in Atlanta a little before midnight on the last flight from Jacksonville. He’d suggested a hotel, but she’d insisted on her guest room.

  “I’m not a monk,” he declared.

  She knew little of his private life. Unmarried, that much she did know. But had he ever been? Any children? Now, though, was not the time to pry. “You need a shave.”

  He rubbed his chin. “So good of you to point that out.”

  She headed for the door. “There’s towels and some razors—girlie ones, I’m afraid—in the hall bath.”

  She’d already showered and dressed, ready for whatever the day might hold.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, standing. “You run a tight ship.”

  She left him and entered the kitchen, switching on the counter television. Rarely did she eat much breakfast beyond a muffin or some wheat flakes, and she detested coffee. Green tea usually was her choice of a hot beverage. She needed to check with the office. Having a nearly nonexistent staff helped with security but was hell on delegating.

  “—it’s going to be interesting,” a CNN reporter was saying. “President Daniels has recently voiced much displeasure with the Joint Chiefs of Staff. In a speech two weeks ago he hinted whether that entire chain of command was even needed.”

  The screen shifted to Daniels standing before a blue podium.

  “They don’t command anything,” he said in his trademark baritone. “They’re advisers. Politicians. Policy repeaters, not makers. Don’t get me wrong. I have great respect for these men. It’s the institution itself I have problems with. There’s no question that the talents of the officers now on the Joint Chiefs could be better utilized in other capacities.”

  Back to the reporter, a perky brunette. “All of which makes you wonder if, or how, he’ll fill the vacancy caused by the untimely death of Admiral David Sylvian.”

  Davis walked into the kitchen, his gaze locked on the television.

  She noticed his interest. “What is it?”

  He stood silent, sullen, preoccupied. Finally, he said, “Sylvian is the navy’s man on the Joint Chiefs.”

  She didn’t understand. She’d read about the motorcycle accident and Sylvian’s injuries. “It’s unfortunate he died, Edwin, but what’s the matter?”

  He reached into his pocket and found his phone. A few punches of the keys and he said, “I need to know how Admiral Sylvian died. Exact cause, and fast.”

  He ended the call.

  “Are you going to explain?” she asked.

  “Stephanie, there’s more to Langford Ramsey. About six months ago the president received a letter from the widow of a navy lieutenant—”

  The phone gave a short clicking sound. Davis studied the screen and answered. He listened a few moments then ended the call.

  “That lieutenant worked in the navy’s general accounting office. He’d noticed irregularities. Several million dollars channeled to bank after bank, then the money simply disappeared. The accounts were all attached to naval intelligence, director’s office.”

  “The intelligence business runs on covert money,” she said. “I have several blind accounts that I use for outside payments, contract help, that kind of thing.”

  “That lieutenant died two days before he was scheduled to brief his superiors. His widow knew some of what he’d learned, and distrusted everyone in the military. She wrote the president with a personal plea, and the letter was directed to me.”

  “And when you saw Office of Naval Intelligence, your radar went to full alert. So what did you find when you looked into those accounts?”

  “Th
ey couldn’t be found.”

  She’d experienced a similar frustration. Banks in various parts of the world were infamous for erasing accounts—

  provided, of course, enough fees were paid by the account holder. “So what’s got you riled up now?”

  “That lieutenant dropped dead in his house, watching television. His wife went to the grocery store and, when she came home, he was dead.”

  “It happens, Edwin.”

  “His blood pressure bottomed out. He had a heart murmur for which he’d been treated and, you’re right, things like that happen. The autopsy found nothing. With his history and no evidence of foul play, the cause of death seemed easy.”

  She waited.

  “I was just told that Admiral David Sylvian died from low blood pressure.”

  His expression mingled disgust, anger, and frustration.

  “Too much of a coincidence for you?” she asked.

  He nodded. “You and I know Ramsey controlled the accounts that that lieutenant found. And now there’s a vacancy on the Joint Chiefs of Staff?”

  “You’re reaching, Edwin.”

  “Am I?” Disdain laced his tone. “My office said they were just about to contact me. Last night, before I dozed off, I ordered two Secret Service agents dispatched to Jacksonville. I wanted them to keep an eye on Zachary Alexander.

  They arrived an hour ago. His house burned to the ground last night, with him inside.”

  She was shocked.

  “Indications are an electrical short from wires beneath the house.”

  She told herself never to play poker with Edwin Davis. He’d received both bits of news with a nothing face. “We have to find those other two lieutenants who were in the Antarctic with Ramsey.”

  “Nick Sayers is dead,” he said. “Years ago. Herbert Rowland is still alive. He lives outside Charlotte. I had that checked last night, too.”

  Secret Service? White House staff cooperating? “You’re full of crap, Edwin. You’re not in this alone. You’re on a mission.”

  His eyes flickered. “That all depends. If it works, then I’m okay. If I fail, then I’m going down.”

  “You staked your career on this?”

  “I owe it to Millicent.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “Like I told you, Scot Harvath said no. But he told me nobody flies solo better than you.”

  That rationalization was not necessarily comforting. But what the hell. The line had already been crossed.

  “Let’s head to Charlotte.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  AACHEN, GERMANY

  11:00 AM

  MALONE FELT THE TRAIN SLOW AS THEY ENTERED THE OUTSKIRTSof Aachen. Even though his worries

  from last night had receded into better proportion, he wondered what was he doing here. Christl Falk sat beside him, but the ride north from Garmisch had taken about three hours and they’d said little.

  His clothes and toiletries from the Posthotel had been waiting for him when he awoke at Reichshoffen. A note had explained that Ulrich Henn had retrieved them during the night. He’d slept on sheets that smelled of clover then showered, shaved, and changed. Of course, he’d only brought a couple of shirts and pants from Denmark, planning to be gone no more than a day, two at the most. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Isabel had been waiting for him downstairs, and he’d informed the Oberhauser matriarch that he’d decided to help.

  What choice did he have? He wanted to know about his father, and he wanted to know who was trying to kill him.

  Walking away would lead to nothing. And the old woman had made one point clear. They knew things he didn’t.

  “Twelve hundred years ago,” Christl said, “this was the center of the secular world. The capital of the newly conceived Northern Empire. What two hundred years later we called the Holy Roman Empire.”

  He smiled. “Which was not holy, nor Roman, nor an empire.”

  She nodded. “True. But Charlemagne was quite the progressive. A man of immense energy, he founded universities, generated legal principles that eventually made their way into the common law, organized the government, and started a nationalism that inspired the creation of Europe. I’ve studied him for years. He seemed to make all the right decisions.

  He ruled for forty-seven years and lived to be seventy-four at a time when kings barely lasted five years in power and were dead at thirty.”

  “And you think all that happened because he had help?”

  “He ate in moderation and drank carefully—and this was when gluttony and drunkenness ran rampant. He daily rode, hunted, and swam. One reason he chose Aachen for his capital was the hot springs, which he used religiously.”

  “So the Holy Ones taught him about diet, hygiene, and exercise?”

  He saw she caught his sarcasm.

  “Characteristically, he was a warrior,” she said. “His entire reign was marked by conquest. But he took a disciplined approach to war. He’d plan a campaign for at least a year, studying the opposition. He also directed battles as opposed to participating in them.”

  “He was also brutal as hell. At Verden he ordered the beheading of forty-five hundred bound Saxons.”

  “That’s not certain,” she said. “No archaeological evidence of that supposed massacre has ever been found. The original source of the story may have mistakenly used the word decollabat, beheading, when it should have said delocabat, exiling.”

  “You know your history. And your Latin.”

  “None of this is what I think. Einhard was the chronicler. He’s the one who made those observations.”

  “Assuming, of course, his writings are authentic.”

  The train slowed to a crawl.

  He was still thinking about yesterday and what lay below Reichshoffen. “Does your sister feel the same way about the Nazis, and what they did to your grandfather, as you do?”

  “Dorothea could not care less. Family and history are not important to her.”

  “What is?”

  “Herself.”

  “Strange how twins so resent each other.”

  “There’s no rule that says we’re to be bonded together. I learned as a child that Dorothea was a problem.”

  He needed to explore those differences. “Your mother seems to play favorites.”

  “I wouldn’t assume that.”

  “She sent you to me.”

  “True. But she aided Dorothea early on.”

  The train came to a stop.

  “You going to explain that one?”

  “She’s the one who gave her the book from Charlemagne’s grave.”

  DOROTHEA FINISHED HER INSPECTIONS OF THE BOXESWILKERSONhad retrieved from Füssen. The book

  dealer had done well. Many of the Ahnenerbe’s records had been seized by the Allies after the war, so she was amazed that so much had been located. But even after reading for the past few hours, the Ahnenerbe remained an enigma. Only in recent years had the organization’s existence finally been studied by historians, the few books written on the subject touching mainly on its failures.

  These boxes talked of success.

  There’d been expeditions to Sweden to retrieve petroglyphs, and to the Middle East, where they’d studied the internal power struggles of the Roman Empire—which, to the Ahnenerbe, had been fought between Nordic and Semitic people.

  Göring himself funded that journey. In Damascus, Syrians welcomed them as allies to combat a rising Jewish

  population. In Iran their researchers visited Persian ruins, as well as Babylon, marveling at a possible Aryan connection.

  In Finland they studied ancient pagan chants. Bavaria yielded cave paintings and evidence of Cro-Magnons, who were, to the Ahnenerbe, surely Aryan. More cave paintings were studied in France where, as one commentator noted,

  “Himmler and so many other Nazis dreamed of standing in the dark embrace of the ancestors.”

  Asia, though, became a true fascination.

  The Ahnenerbe believed early Aryan
s conquered much of China and Japan and that Buddha himself was an Aryan

  offspring. A major expedition to Tibet yielded thousands of photographs, head casts, and body measurements, along with exotic animal and plant specimens, all gathered in the hope of proving ancestry. More trips to Bolivia, Ukraine, Iran, Iceland, and the Canary Islands never materialized, though elaborate plans for each journey were detailed.