Steve Berry - The Charlemagne Pursuit

Charlie Smith was not only an excellent killer, but also gathered information with the zeal of a squirrel locating winter nuts. He seemed to love discovering secrets that people went to great lengths to hide. Smith had spent the past two years collecting facts. Some of it was being used right now, and the rest would be brought into play over the next few days, as needed.

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 facades. 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.

STEPHANIE ROUSED EDWIN DAVIS FROM A SOUND SLEEP. HE CAME up 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."