Steve Berry - The Charlemagne Pursuit

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 rifle'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.

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.