The Charlemagne Pursuit (11 page)

TWENTY

JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA
5:30 PM

S
TEPHANIE STUDIED THE OLDER MAN WHO OPENED THE DOOR TO
the modest brick home on the city’s south side. He was short and overweight, with a bulbous, fiery-hued nose that reminded her of Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer. According to his service record, Zachary Alexander should be pushing seventy—and he looked it. She listened as Edwin Davis explained who they were and why they’d come.

“What do you think I can tell you?” Alexander asked. “I’ve been out of the navy almost thirty years.”

“Twenty-six, actually,” Davis said.

Alexander leveled a pudgy finger at them. “I don’t like wastin’ my time.”

She heard a television playing in another room. Some game show. And noticed that the house was immaculate, the inside reeking of antiseptic.

“We only need a few minutes,” Davis said. “After all, I did come from the White House.”

Stephanie wondered about the lie, but said nothing.

“I didn’t even vote for Daniels.”

She smiled. “A lot of us are in that category, but could we have just a few minutes?”

Alexander finally relented and led them into a den, where he switched off the television and offered them a seat.

“I served in the navy a long time,” Alexander said. “But I have to tell you, I don’t have fond memories of it.”

She’d read his service record. Alexander had made it to commander but was twice passed over for further promotion. He’d eventually opted out and retired with full benefits.

“They didn’t think I was good enough for them.”

“You were good enough to command
Holden.
”

Crinkly eyes narrowed. “That and a few other ships.”

“We came,” Davis said, “because of the mission
Holden
completed to Antarctica.”

Alexander said nothing. Stephanie wondered if his silence was calculated or cautionary.

“I actually was excited about those orders,” Alexander finally said. “I wanted to see the ice. But later, I always thought that trip had some-thin’ to do with me being passed over.”

Davis leaned forward. “We need to hear about it.”

“For what?” Alexander spat out. “The whole thing’s classified. May still be. They told me to keep my mouth shut.”

“I’m a deputy national security adviser. She’s the head of a government intelligence agency. We can hear what you have to say.”

“Bullshit.”

“Is there any reason you have to be so hostile?” she asked.

“Besides that I hate the navy?” he asked. “Or besides you two are fishin’ and I don’t want to be bait.”

Alexander relaxed in his recliner. She imagined that he’d sat there for years thinking about what was running through his mind at this moment. “I did what I was ordered to do, and I did it well. I always followed orders. But it’s been a long time, so what do you want to know?”

She said, “We know
Holden
was ordered to the Antarctic in November 1971. You went looking for a submarine.”

A puzzled look came to Alexander’s face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“We’ve read the court of inquiry report on the sinking of
Blazek,
or NR-1A, whatever you want to call the thing. It specifically mentions you and
Holden
going to search.”

Alexander gazed at them with a mixture of curiosity and enmity. “My orders were to proceed to the Weddell Sea, take sonar readings, and be alert for anomalies. I had three passengers on board and was told to accommodate their needs, without question. That’s what I did.”

“No submarine?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nothin’ close.”

“What did you find?” Davis asked.

“Not a damn thing. Spent two weeks freezin’ my ass off.”

An oxygen bottle rested beside Alexander’s chair. Stephanie wondered about its presence, along with an assortment of medical treatises that lined a bookcase across the room. Alexander didn’t appear in poor health, and his breathing seemed normal.

“I don’t know anythin’ about a submarine,” he repeated. “I recall, at the time, that one sank in the North Atlantic. And it was
Blazek,
that’s right. I remember. But my mission had nothing to do with that. We were cruisin’ the southern Pacific, rerouted to South America, where we picked up those three passengers. Then we headed due south.”

“What was the ice like?” Davis asked.

“Even though it was nearly summertime, that place is tough sailing. Cold as a freezer, bergs everywhere. But one beautiful spot—that I will say.”

“You learned nothing while you were there?” she asked.

“I’m not the one to ask about that.” His countenance had softened, as if he’d concluded they might not be the enemy. “Those reports you read didn’t mention three passengers?”

Davis shook his head. “Not a word. Only you.”

“Typical friggin’ navy.” His face lost its impassive look. “My orders were to take those three wherever they wanted to go. They went ashore several times, but when they came back they’d say nothin’.”

“Take any gear with them?”

Alexander nodded. “Cold-water diving suits and tanks. After the fourth time they went ashore, they said we could leave.”

“None of your men went with them?”

Alexander shook his head. “No way. Not allowed. Those three lieutenants did it all. Whatever that was.”

Stephanie considered the oddity, but in the military strange things occurred on a daily basis. Still, she needed to ask the million-dollar question. “Who were they?”

She saw consternation grip the old man. “You know I’ve never spoken of this before.” He seemed unable to submerge his depression. “I wanted to be a captain. I deserved it, but the navy disagreed.”

“It was a long time ago,” Davis said. “There’s not much we can do to repair the past.”

She wondered if Davis meant Alexander’s situation or his own.

“This must be important,” the old man said.

“Enough that we came here today.”

“One was a guy named Nick Sayers. Another, Herbert Rowland. Both cocky, like most lieutenants.”

She silently agreed.

“And the third?” Davis asked.

“The cockiest of ’em all. I hated that prick. Trouble is he went on and got his captain’s bars. Then gold stars. Ramsey was his name. Lang-ford Ramsey.”

TWENTY-ONE

The clouds invite me and a mist summons. The course of the stars hasten me and the winds cause me to fly and lift me upward into heaven. I draw to a wall built of crystal and I am surrounded by tongues of ice. I draw to a temple built of stone and the walls are like a tessellated floor made of stone. Its ceiling is like the path of the stars. Heat generates from the walls, fear covers me, and a trembling takes hold. I fall upon my face and see a lofty throne, its appearance is as crystalline as the shining sun. The High Adviser sits and his raiment shines more brightly than the sun and is whiter than any snow. The High Adviser says to me, “Einhard, thou scribe of righteousness, approach hither and hear my voice.” He speaks to me in my language, which is surprising. “As He hath created and given to man the power of understanding the word of wisdom, so hath He created me also. Welcome to our land. I am told you are a man of learning. If that be so then you can see the secrets of the winds, how they are divided to blow over the earth, and the secrets of the clouds and dew. We can teach you of the sun and moon, whence they proceed and whither they come again, and their glorious return, and how one is superior to the other, and their stately orbit, and how they do not leave their orbit, and they add nothing to their orbit and they take nothing from it, and they keep faith with each other in accordance with the oath by which they are bound together.”

Malone listened as Christl translated the Latin text, then asked, “That was written when?”

“Between 814, when Charlemagne died, and 840, when Einhard died.”

“That’s impossible. It talks of orbits of the sun and moon and how they’re bound to each other. Those astronomical concepts had yet to be developed. Those would have been heresy then.”

“I agree, for men living in western Europe. But for men living elsewhere on this planet, who were not constricted by the church, the situation was different.”

He was still skeptical.

“Let me place this in a historical context,” she said. “Charlemagne’s two elder sons both died before him. His third son, Louis the Pious, inherited the Carolingian empire. Louis’ sons fought with their father, and among themselves. Einhard served Louis faithfully, as he’d served Charlemagne, but was so sickened by the infighting that he withdrew from court and spent the rest of his days at an abbey Charlemagne had given him. It was during this time that he wrote his biography of Charlemagne and”—she held up the ancient tome—“this book.”

“Recounting a great journey?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Who’s to say that’s real? Sounds like pure fantasy.”

She shook her head. “His
Life of Charlemagne
is one of the most renowned works of all time. Still in print today. He was not known for crafting fiction, and he went to a great deal of trouble to conceal these words.”

He still wasn’t convinced.

“We know a lot about Charlemagne’s deeds,” she said, “but little about his inner beliefs. Nothing reliable describing those has survived. We do know that he loved ancient histories and epics. Before his time, myths were preserved orally. He was the first to order them written down. We know Einhard supervised that effort. But Louis, after inheriting the throne, destroyed all of those texts for their pagan content. The destruction of those writings would have disgusted Einhard, so he made sure this book survived.”

“By writing it partially in a language no one could understand?”

“Something like that.”

“I’ve read accounts that say Einhard may not have even written his Charlemagne biography. Nobody knows anything for sure.”

“Mr. Malone—”

“Why don’t you call me Cotton? You’re making me feel old.”

“Interesting name.”

“I like it.”

She smiled. “I can explain all of this in much more detail. My grandfather and father spent years researching. There are things I need to show you, things I need to explain. Once you see and hear those, I think you’ll agree that our fathers did not die in vain.”

Though her eyes suggested a readiness to take on all his arguments, she was playing her trump card and they both knew it.

“My father was the captain of a submarine,” he said. “Your father was a passenger on that sub. Granted, I have no idea what either one of them was doing in the Antarctic, but they still died in vain.”

And no one gave a damn,
he silently added.

She pushed her soup away. “Will you help us?”

“Who’s
us
?”

“Me. My father. Yours.”

He caught the sound of rebellion, but needed time to hear from Stephanie. “How about this. Let me sleep on it, and tomorrow you can show me what you want.”

Her eyes softened. “That’s fair. It is getting late.”

They left the café and followed the snowy pavement back toward the Posthotel. Christmas was two weeks away, and Garmisch seemed ready. Holiday time, for him, was a mixed blessing. He’d spent the past two with Henrik Thorvaldsen at Christiangade, and this year would probably be the same. He wondered about Christl Falk and her Christmas traditions. A melancholiness seemed to dominate her, and she made little effort to disguise it. She appeared intelligent and determined—not all that different from her sister—but the two women were unknowns who demanded caution.

They crossed the street. Many of the windows in the gaily frescoed Posthotel were lit to the night. His room, on the second floor, above the restaurant and lobby, had four windows on one side, another three facing the front. He’d left the lamps burning and movement behind one of the windows caught his attention.

He stopped.

Somebody was there. Christl saw it, too.

Curtains were yanked back.

A man’s face came into view and his gaze locked onto Malone’s. Then the man glanced right, toward the street, and fled the window, his shadow revealing a rushed exit.

Malone spotted a car with three men inside, parked across the street.

“Come on,” he said.

He knew they needed to leave, and quickly. Thank goodness he still carried the keys to his rental. They rushed to the vehicle and leaped in.

He fired up the engine and whipped from the parking spot. He slammed the transmission into gear and roared from the hotel, tires spinning on the frozen asphalt. He powered his window down, turned onto the boulevard, and spotted a man in his rearview mirror emerging from the hotel.

He gripped the gun from his jacket, slowed as he approached the parked car, and fired a shot into the rear tire, which sent three forms inside ducking for cover.

Then he sped away.

TWENTY-TWO

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 12
12:40 AM

M
ALONE TWISTED HIS WAY OUT OF
G
ARMISCH, USING TO MAXIMUM
advantage its maze of unlit narrow streets and his head start on the men who’d been waiting at the Posthotel. He had no way of knowing if they had a second vehicle handy. Satisfied that they were not being pursued, he found the highway leading north that he’d traveled earlier and, following Christl’s instructions, realized where they were headed.

“Those things you need to show me are in Ettal Monastery?” he asked.

She nodded. “No sense waiting until morning.”

He agreed.

“I’m sure when you spoke with Dorothea there, you were told only what she wanted you to know.”

“And you’re different?”

She stared at him. “Totally.”

He wasn’t so sure. “Those men at the hotel. Yours? Or hers?”

“You wouldn’t believe me no matter what I said.”

He downshifted as the highway began to descend back toward the abbey. “A piece of unsolicited advice? You really need to explain yourself. My patience is about gone.”

She hesitated, and he waited.

“Fifty thousand years ago a civilization arose on this planet, one that managed to progress faster than the rest of humankind. Leading the way, if you will. Was it technologically developed? Not really, but it was highly advanced. Mathematics, architecture, chemistry, biology, geology, meteorology, astronomy. That’s where it excelled.”

He was listening.

“Our concept of ancient history has been strongly influenced by the Bible. But its texts dealing with antiquity were written from an insular point of view. They distorted ancient cultures and completely neglected some important ones, like the Minoans. This particular culture I’m talking about is not biblical. They were an oceangoing society with worldwide commerce, possessing capable boats and advanced navigational skills. Later cultures like the Polynesians, the Phoenicians, the Vikings, and finally the Europeans would all develop these skills, but Civilization One mastered them first.”

He’d read about those theories. Most scientists now rejected the idea of a linear societal development from the Old Stone Age through the New Stone Age, Bronze Age, and Iron Age. Instead, scholars believed that humans developed independent of one another. Proof of that existed even today, on every continent, where primitive cultures still coexisted with advanced societies. “So you’re saying that, in times past, while Paleolithic peoples occupied Europe, more advanced cultures could have existed elsewhere.” He recalled what Dorothea Lindauer told him. “Aryans again?”

“Hardly. They’re a myth. But that myth may have a basis in reality. Take Crete and Troy. They were long considered fictional, but we now know them to be real.”

“So what happened to this first civilization?”

“Unfortunately, every culture contains the seeds of its own destruction. Progress and decay coexist. History has shown that all societies eventually develop the means of their downfall. Look at Babylon, Greece, Rome, the Mongols, Huns, Turks, and too many monarchical societies to even count. They always do it to themselves. Civilization One was no exception.”

What she said made sense. Man truly did seem to destroy as much as he created.

“Grandfather and Father both were obsessed with this lost civilization. I must confess, I’m drawn to it, too.”

“My bookshop is loaded with New Age materials about Atlantis and a dozen other so-called lost civilizations, not a trace of which has ever been found. It’s fantasy.”

“War and conquest have taken their toll on human history. It’s a cyclical process. Progress, war, devastation, then reawakening. There’s a sociological truism. The more advanced the culture, the more easily it will be destroyed, and the less evidence of it will remain. In more simplistic terms, we find what we look for.”

He slowed the car. “No, we don’t. Most times we stumble onto things.”

She shook her head. “The greatest human revelations have all started with a simple theory. Look at evolution. It was only after Darwin formulated his concepts that we started noticing things that fortified the theory. Copernicus proposed a radical new way to view the solar system, and when we finally looked we found out he was right. Before the last fifty years no one seriously believed that an advanced civilization could have preceded us. It was regarded as nonsense. So the evidence has simply been neglected.”

“What evidence?”

She removed Einhard’s book from her pocket. “This.”

March 800. Charlemagne rides north from Aachen. He’s never before ventured to the Gallic Sea at this time of year, when frigid northern winds pound the shore and fishing is poor. But he insists on this journey. Three soldiers and I accompany him, and the journey takes the better part of a day. Once there, camp is set in the usual location, beyond the dunes, which offers little protection from a strong gale. Three days after arriving sails are seen and we think the boats Danes or part of the Saracenic fleet that threatens the empire north and south. But eventually the king shouts in joy and waits on the beach as the ships raise their oars and smaller boats row ashore carrying the Watchers. Uriel, who rules over Tartarus, leads them. With him are Arakiba, who is over the spirits of men, and Raguel who takes vengeance on the world of luminaries, and Danel, who is set over the best part of mankind and chaos, and Saraqael, who is set over spirits. They wear thick mantles, fur trousers, and fur boots. Their fair hair is neatly trimmed and combed. Charlemagne clasps each in a firm embrace. The king asks many questions and Uriel answers. The king is allowed onto the ships, each fashioned of sturdy timbers and caulked with tar, and he marvels at their sturdiness. We are told they are built away from their land, where trees grow in abundance. They love the sea and understand its ways far better than we do. Danel displays for the king maps of places we do not know exist and we are told how their ships find their way. Danel shows us a piece of sharp iron, resting on a sliver of wood, floating in a shell of water, that points the way over the sea. The king wants to know how that could be and Danel explains that the metal is attracted to one particular direction and he motioned north. No matter how the shell is turned the iron point always finds that direction. They visit for three days and Uriel and the king talk at length. I strike a friendship with Arakiba, who acts as counselor for Uriel, as I do for the king. Arakiba tells me of his land, where fire and ice live together, and I tell him that I would like to see that place.

“The Watchers are what Einhard called the people from Civilization One,” she said. “
Holy Ones
is another term he uses. Both he and Charlemagne thought them from heaven.”

“Who says they were anything other than a culture we already know exists?”

“Do you know of any society that used an alphabet or language like the one you saw in Dorothea’s book?”

“That isn’t conclusive proof.”

“Was there an oceangoing society in the ninth century? Only the Vikings. But these weren’t Vikings.”

“You don’t know who they were.”

“No, I don’t. But I do know that Charlemagne ordered the book Dorothea showed you buried with him. It was apparently important enough that he wanted it kept from everyone, except emperors. Einhard went to a lot of trouble to hide this book. Suffice it to say that there is more in here that explains why the Nazis really went to Antarctica in 1938, and why our fathers went back in 1971.”

The abbey rose ahead, still illuminated against the limitless night.

“Park over there,” she said, and he wheeled in and stopped.

Still no one following them.

She popped open her door. “Let me show you what, I’m sure, Dorothea didn’t.”