Steve Berry - The Charlemagne Pursuit

Forrest Malone, USN

November 17, 1971 Malone's voice trembled as he read his father's final four words. Yes, they had been difficult for his father to say. In fact, he could never recall them ever being voiced.

But he'd known.

He stared at the corpse, the face frozen in time. Thirty-eight years had passed. During which Malone had grown into a man, joined the navy, become an officer, then an agent for the US government. And while all that occurred, Commander Forrest Malone had sat here, on a stone bench.

Waiting.

Dorothea seemed to sense his pain and gently grabbed his arm. He watched her face and could read her thoughts.

"Seems we all found what we came for," she said.

He saw it in her eyes. Resolution. Peace.

"There's nothing left for me," she said. "My grandfather was a Nazi. My father a dreamer who lived in another time and place. He came here seeking truth and faced his death with courage. My mother has spent the past four decades trying to take his place, but all she could do was pit Christl and me against each other. Even now. Here. She tried to keep us at odds, and was so successful that Christl was killed because of her." She went silent, but her eyes conveyed submission. "When Georg died, a large part of me died, too. I thought by securing wealth I could find happiness, but that's impossible."

"You're the last Oberhauser."

"We are a sorry lot."

"You could change things."

She shook her head. "To do that, I would have to place a bullet in Mother's head."

She turned and walked toward the steps. He watched her go with an odd mix of respect and contempt, knowing where she was headed.

"There will be repercussions from all this," he said. "Christl was right. History will change."

She kept walking. "It doesn't concern me. All things must end."

Her comment was colored by anguish, her voice trembling. But she was right. There came a time when everything ended. His military career. Government service. Marriage. Life in Georgia. His father's life.

Now Dorothea Lindauer was making a final choice of her own.

"Good luck to you," he called out.

She stopped, turned, and threw him a weak smile. "Bitte, Herr Malone." She let out a long breath and seemed to steel herself. "I need to do this alone." Her eyes implored him.

He nodded. "I'll stay here."

He watched as she climbed the stairs and passed through the portal, into the city.

He stared at his father, whose dead eyes caught no glint of light. He had so much to say. He wanted to tell him that he'd been a good son, a good naval officer, a good agent, and, he believed, a good man. Six times he'd been awarded commendations. He'd been a failure as a husband, but was working on being a better father. He wanted to be a part of Gary's life, always. All his adult life he'd wondered what had happened to his own father, imagining the worst. Sadly, reality was more terrible than anything he'd ever concocted. His mother had been similarly tormented. She'd never remarried. Instead she'd endured decades, clutching her grief, always referring to herself as Mrs. Forrest Malone.

How was it that the past never seemed to end?

A shot sounded, like a balloon popping beneath a blanket.

He envisioned the scene above.

Dorothea Lindauer had ended her life. Normally suicide would be deemed the result of a sick mind or an abandoned heart. Here, it was the only means to stop a madness. He wondered if Isabel Oberhauser would even comprehend what she'd wrought. Her husband, grandson, and daughters were gone.

A loneliness crept into his bones as he absorbed the deep silence of the tomb. Proverbs came to mind.

A simple truth from long ago.

He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind.

STEPHANIE ENTERED THE OVAL OFFICE. DANNY DANIELS STOOD and greeted her. Edwin Davis and Diane McCoy were already seated.

"Merry Christmas," the president said.

She returned the greeting. He'd summoned her from Atlanta yesterday afternoon, providing the same Secret Service jet that she and Davis had used, over a week ago, to travel from Asheville to Fort Lee.

Davis looked fine. His face had healed, the bruising gone. He wore a suit and tie and sat stiffly in an upholstered chair, his granite facade back in place. She'd managed a fleeting glance into his heart and wondered if that privilege would doom her from ever knowing him any further. He did not seem a man who liked to bare his soul.

Daniels offered her a seat, next to McCoy. "I thought it best we all have a talk," the president said, sitting in his own chair. "The past couple of weeks have been tough."

"How's Colonel Gross?" she asked.

"Doing good. His leg is healing fine, but that round did some damage. He's a bit irritated with Diane for giving him away, but grateful that Edwin can shoot straight."

"I should go see him," McCoy said. "I never meant for him to get hurt."

"I'd give it a week or so. I meant what I said about the irritation."

Daniels' melancholy eyes were the embodiment of woe.

"Edwin, I know you hate my stories, but listen up anyway. Two lights in a fog. On one, an admiral stands on the ship's bridge and radios the other light saying he's commanding a battleship and the light should veer right. The other light radios back and tells the admiral he should veer right. The admiral, being a testy sort, like me, comes back and reorders the other ship to go right. Finally, the other light says, 'Admiral, I'm the seaman manning the lighthouse and you better damn well go right.' I went out on a limb for you, Edwin. Way out. But you were the guy in the lighthouse, the smart one, and I listened. Diane, there, the moment she heard about Millicent, signed on and took a hell of a chance, too. Stephanie you drafted, but she went the distance. And Gross? He took a bullet."

"And I appreciate everything that was done," Davis said. "Immensely."

Stephanie wondered if Davis harbored any remorse for killing Charlie Smith. Probably not, but that didn't mean he'd ever forget. She looked at McCoy. "Did you know when the president first called my office, looking for Edwin?"

McCoy shook her head. "After he hung up, he told me. He was concerned that things might get out of hand. He thought a backup plan might be needed. So he had me contact Ramsey." McCoy paused. "And he was right. Though you two did a great job flushing Smith our way."

"We still have some fallout to deal with, though," Daniels said.

Stephanie knew what he meant. Ramsey's death had been explained as a murder by a covert operative. Smith's death was simply ignored since no one knew he even existed. Gross' injuries were attributed to a hunting accident. Ramsey's chief aide, a Captain Hovey, was questioned and, on threat of court-martial, revealed everything. In a matter of days the Pentagon cleaned house, assigning a new management team to naval intelligence, ending the reign of Langford Ramsey and anyone associated with him.

"Aatos Kane came to see me," Daniels said. "He wanted me to know that Ramsey had tried to intimidate him. Of course, he was long on complaints and short on explanations."

She caught a twinkle in the president's eye.

"I showed him a file we found in Ramsey's house, inside a safe. Fascinating stuff. No need to go into the details-let's just say that the good senator will not be running for president and will retire, effective December thirty-first, from Congress to spend more time with his family." A look of unmistakable command swept over Daniels. "The country will be spared his leadership." Daniels shook his head. "You three did a great job. So did Malone."

They'd buried Forrest Malone two days ago in a shady south Georgia cemetery, near where his widow lived. The son, on behalf of the father, refused interment in Arlington National Cemetery.