The Charlemagne Pursuit (4 page)

SIX

C
APTAIN
S
TERLING
W
ILKERSON
, US N
AVY, STARED PAST THE
frosty plate-glass window at the Posthotel. He was discreetly positioned across the street, inside a busy cDonald’s. People trudged back and forth outside, bundled against the cold and a steady snow.

Garmisch was an entanglement of congested strasses and pedestrian-only quarters. The whole place seemed like one of those toy towns at FAO Schwarz, with painted Alpine cottages nestled deep in cotton batting, sprinkled thick with plastic flakes. Tourists surely came for the ambience and the nearby snowy slopes. He’d come for Cotton Malone and had watched earlier as the ex–Magellan Billet agent, now a Copenhagen bookseller, killed a man then leaped from a cable car, eventually making his way to ground level and fleeing in his rental car. Wilkerson had followed, and when Malone headed straight for the Posthotel and disappeared inside, he’d assumed a position across the street, enjoying a beer while he waited.

He knew all about Cotton Malone.

Georgia native. Forty-eight years old. Former naval officer. Georgetown law school graduate. Judge Advocate General’s Corps. Justice Department agent. Two years ago Malone had been involved in a shoot-out in Mexico City, where he’d received his fourth wound in the line of duty and apparently reached his limit, opting for an early retirement, which the president personally granted. He’d then resigned his naval commission and moved to Copenhagen, opening an old-book shop.

All that, Wilkerson could understand.

Two things puzzled him.

First, the name
Cotton.
The file noted that Malone’s legal name was
Harold Earl.
Nowhere was the unusual nickname explained.

And second, how important was Malone’s father? Or, more accurately, his father’s memory? The man had died thirty-eight years ago.

Did that still matter?

Apparently so, since Malone had killed to protect what Stephanie Nelle had sent.

He sipped his beer.

A breeze swirled past outside and enhanced the dance of snowflakes. A colorful sleigh appeared, drawn by two prancing steeds, its riders tucked beneath plaid blankets, the driver snatching at the bridles.

He understood a man like Cotton Malone.

He was a lot like him.

Thirty-one years he’d served the navy. Few rose to the rank of captain, even fewer beyond to the admiralty. Eleven years he’d been assigned to naval intelligence, the past six overseas, rising to Berlin bureau chief. His service record was replete with successful tours at tough assignments. True, he’d never leaped from a cable car a thousand feet in the air, but he’d faced danger.

He checked his watch. 4:20
PM
.

Life was good.

The divorce to wife number two last year had not been costly. She’d actually left with little fanfare. He then lost twenty pounds and added some auburn to his blond hair, which made him appear a decade short of fifty-three. His eyes were more alive thanks to a French plastic surgeon who’d tightened the folds. Another specialist eliminated the need for glasses, while a nutritionist friend taught him how to maintain greater stamina through a vegetarian diet. His strong nose, taut cheeks, and sharp brow would all be assets when he finally rose to flag rank.

Admiral.

That was the goal.

Twice he’d been passed over. Usually that was all the chances the navy offered. But Langford Ramsey had promised a third.

His cell phone vibrated.

“By now Malone’s read that file,” the voice said when he answered.

“Every word, I’m sure.”

“Move him along.”

“Men like this can’t be rushed,” he said.

“But they can be directed.”

He had to say, “It’s waited twelve hundred years to be found.”

“So let’s not let it wait any longer.”

S
TEPHANIE SAT AT HER DESK AND FINISHED READING THE COURT
of inquiry report. “This whole thing is false?”

Davis nodded. “That sub was nowhere near the North Atlantic.”

“What was the point?”

“Rickover built two NR boats. They were his babies. He allocated a fortune to them during the height of the Cold War, and no one gave a second thought to spending two hundred million dollars to one-up the Soviets. But he cut corners. Safety was not the primary concern, results were what mattered. Hell, hardly anybody knew the subs existed. But the sinking of NR-1A raised problems on many levels. The sub itself. The mission. Lots of embarrassing questions. So the navy hid behind national security and concocted a cover story.”

“They sent only one ship to look for survivors?”

He nodded. “I agree with you, Stephanie. Malone is cleared to read that. The question is, should he?”

Her answer was never in doubt. “Absolutely.” She recalled her own pain at the unresolved questions over her husband’s suicide and her son’s death. Malone had helped resolve both of those agonies, which was the precise reason why she’d owed him.

Her desk phone buzzed, and one of the staff told her that Cotton Malone was on the line demanding to speak with her.

She and Davis exchanged puzzled glances.

“Don’t look at me,” Davis said. “I didn’t give him that file.”

She answered with the handset. Davis pointed to a speaker box. She didn’t like it, but she activated the unit so he could hear.

“Stephanie, let me just say that, at the moment, I’m not in the mood for bullshit.”

“And hello to you, too.”

“Did you read that file before you sent it to me?”

“No.” Which was the truth.

“We’ve been friends a long time. I appreciate you doing this. But I need something else and I don’t need any questions asked.”

“I thought we were even,” she tried.

“Put this on my bill.”

She already knew what he wanted.

“A naval ship,” he said, “
Holden.
In November 1971 it was dispatched to the Antarctic. I want to know if its captain is still alive—a man named Zachary Alexander. If so, where is he? If he’s not breathing, are any of his officers still around?”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why.”

“Have you now read the file?” he asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“I can hear it in your voice. So you know why I want to know.”

“I was told a short while ago about the Zugspitze. That’s when I decided to read the file.”

“Did you have people there? On the ground?”

“Not mine.”

“If you read that report, then you know the SOBs lied. They left that sub out there. My father and those other ten men could have been sitting on the bottom waiting for people to save them. People who never came. I want to know why the navy did that.”

He was clearly angry. So was she.

“I want to talk to one or more of those officers from
Holden,
” he said. “Find them for me.”

“You coming here?”

“As soon as you find them.”

Davis nodded, signaling his assent.

“All right. I’ll locate them.”

She was tiring of this charade. Edwin Davis was here for a reason. Malone had obviously been played. She had been, too, for that matter.

“Another thing,” he said, “since you know about the cable car. The woman who was there—I popped her hard in the head, but I need to find her. Did they take her into custody? Let her go? What?”

Davis mouthed,
You’ll get back to him.

Enough. Malone was her friend. He’d stood by her when she really needed it, so it was time to tell him what was happening—Edwin Davis be damned.

“Never mind,” Malone suddenly said.

“What do you mean?”

“I just found her.”

SEVEN

GARMISCH

M
ALONE STOOD AT THE SECOND-STORY WINDOW AND GAZED
down across the busy street. The woman from the cable car, Panya, calmly walked toward a snowy parking lot that fronted a McDonald’s. The restaurant was tucked into a Bavarian-style building, only a discreet sign with the golden arches and a few window decorations announcing its presence.

He released his hold on the lace curtains. What was she doing here? Maybe she’d fled? Or had the police simply let her go?

He grabbed his leather jacket and his gloves and stuffed the gun he’d taken from her into one of the pockets. He left the hotel room and descended to ground level, careful in his movements but casual in his gait.

Outside, the air was like the inside of a chest freezer. His rental car was parked a few feet from the door. Across the street he saw the dark Peugeot the woman had walked toward, preparing to exit the lot, its right blinker flashing.

He hopped into his car and followed.

W
ILKERSON DOWNED THE REST OF HIS BEER.
H
E’D SEEN CURTAINS
in the second-floor window part as the woman from the cable car strolled before the restaurant.

Timing truly was everything.

He’d thought Malone could not be steered.

But he’d been wrong.

S
TEPHANIE WAS PISSED
. “I’
M NOT GOING TO BE PARTY TO THIS
,” she told Edwin Davis. “I’m calling Cotton back. Fire me, I don’t give a damn.”

“I’m not here in an official capacity.”

She appraised him with suspicious eyes. “The president doesn’t know?”

He shook his head. “This one’s personal.”

“You need to tell me why.”

She’d only dealt directly with Davis once, and he hadn’t been forthcoming, actually placing her life in jeopardy. But in the end she’d learned that this man was no fool. He possessed two doctorates—one in American history, the other in international relations—along with superb organizational skills. Always courteous. Folksy. Similar to President Daniels himself. She’d seen how people tended to underestimate him, herself included. Three secretaries of state had used him to whip their ailing departments into line. Now he worked for the White House, helping the administration through the last three years of its final term.

Yet this career bureaucrat was now openly breaking rules.

“I thought I was the only maverick here,” she said.

“You shouldn’t have let that file go to Malone. But once I learned that you had, I decided I needed some help.”

“For what?”

“A debt I owe.”

“And now you’re in a position to repay it? With your White House power and credentials.”

“Something like that.”

She sighed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Malone’s right. We need to find out about
Holden
and its officers. If any of them are still around, they need to be located.”

M
ALONE FOLLOWED THE
P
EUGEOT
. S
AWTOOTHED MOUNTAINS
sliced with streaks of snow stretched skyward on both sides of the highway. He was driving north, out of Garmisch, on an ascending zigzag route. Tall, black-trunked trees formed a stately aisle, the picturesque scene clearly something Baedeker would have reveled in describing. Winter this far north brought darkness quick—not even five o’clock and daylight had already waned.

He grabbed an area map from the passenger seat and noted that ahead lay the Alpine valley of the Ammergebirge, which stretched for miles from the base of Ettaler Mandl, a respectable peak at over five thousand feet. A small village dotted the map near Ettaler Mandl, and he slowed as both he and the Peugeot ahead entered its outskirts.

He watched as his quarry abruptly wheeled into a parking space before a massive white-fronted building, two-storied, ruled by symmetry, populated with gothic windows. A towering dome rose from its center, flanked by two smaller towers, all topped with blackened copper and flooded with light.

A bronze placard announced
ETTAL MONASTERY
.

The woman exited the car and disappeared into an arched portal.

He parked and followed.

The air was noticeably colder than in Garmisch, confirming a rise in altitude. He should have brought a thicker coat, but he hated the things. The stereotypical image of a spy in a trench coat was laughable. Way too restrictive. He stuffed gloved hands into his jacket pockets and curled his right fingers around the gun. Snow crunched beneath his feet as he followed a concrete walk into a cloister the size of a football field, surrounded by more baroque buildings. The woman was hustling up an inclined path toward the doors of a church.

People were both entering and exiting.

He trotted to catch up, dashing through a silence broken only by soles slapping the frozen pavement and the call of a distant cuckoo.

He entered the church through a gothic portal topped by an elaborate tympanum displaying biblical scenes. His eyes were immediately drawn to dome frescoes of what appeared to be heaven. The interior walls were alive with stucco statues, cherubs, and complex patterns, all in brilliant shades of gold, pink, gray, and green, that flickered as if in constant movement. He’d seen rococo churches before, most so over-laden that the building became lost, but not here. The decorations seemed subordinate to architecture.

People milled about. Some sat in pews. The woman he was following walked fifty feet to his right, beyond the pulpit, heading for another sculpted tympanum.

She entered and closed a heavy wooden door behind her.

He stopped to consider his options.

No choice.

He moved toward the door and grasped its iron handle. His right fingers stayed tightened around the gun, but he kept the weapon tucked into his pocket.

He twisted the latch and eased open the door.

The room beyond was smaller, with a vaulted ceiling supported by slender white columns. More rococo ornamentation sprang from the walls, but it was not as bold. Perhaps this was a sacristy. A couple of tall cupboards and two tables accounted for the only furnishings. Standing beside one of the tables were two women—the one from the cable car and another.

“Welcome, Herr Malone,” the new woman said. “I’ve been waiting.”