The Charlemagne Pursuit (51 page)

NINETY-FOUR

WASHINGTON, DC
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 22
4:15 PM

S
TEPHANIE ENTERED THE
O
VAL
O
FFICE
. D
ANNY
D
ANIELS 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 façade 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.

And she’d understood Malone’s reluctance.

The other nine crewmen had likewise been brought home, their bodies delivered to families, the true story of NR-1A finally being told by the press. Dietz Oberhauser had been sent to Germany, where his wife claimed his and her daughters’ remains.

“How is Cotton?” the president asked.

“Angry.”

“If it matters,” Daniels said, “Admiral Dyals is taking a lot of heat from the navy and the press. The story of NR-1A has struck a nerve with the public.”

“I’m sure Cotton would like to ring Dyals’ neck,” she said.

“And that translation program is yielding a wealth of information about that city and the people who lived there. There are references to contacts with cultures all over the globe. They did interact and share, but thank heaven they weren’t Aryans. No super race. Not even warlike. The researchers stumbled onto a text yesterday that may explain what happened to them. They lived in Antarctica tens of thousands of years ago, when it wasn’t iced over. But as the temperatures fell, they gradually retreated into the mountains. Eventually, their geothermal vents cooled. So they left. Hard to say when. They apparently used a different time measurement and calendar. Just like with us, not everyone had access to all of their knowledge, so they couldn’t reproduce their culture elsewhere. Only bits and pieces—here and there—as they worked their way into our civilization. The best informed left last and wrote the texts, leaving them as a record. Over time, those immigrants were absorbed into other cultures, their history lost, nothing of them but legend remained.”

“Seems sad,” she said.

“I agree. But the ramifications from this could be enormous. The National Science Foundation is sending a team to Antarctica to work the site. Norway has agreed to give us control of the area. Malone’s father, and the rest of NR-1A’s crew, did not die for no good reason. We may learn a great deal about ourselves, thanks to them.”

“I’m not sure that would make Cotton, or those families, feel better.”

“
Study the past, if you would divine the future,
” Davis said. “Confucius. Good advice.” He paused. “For us, and for Cotton.”

“Yes, it is,” Daniels said. “I hope this is over.”

Davis nodded. “For me, it is.”

McCoy agreed. “Nothing would be served by hashing this out in public. Ramsey’s gone. Smith’s gone. Kane’s gone. It’s over.”

Daniels stood, stepped to his desk, and grabbed a journal. “This came from Ramsey’s house, too. It’s the logbook from NR-1A. The one Herbert Rowland told you about. The asshole kept it all these years.” The president handed it to her. “I thought Cotton might like it.”

“I’ll get it to him,” she said, “once he calms down.”

“Check out the last entry.”

She opened to the final page and read what Forrest Malone had written.
Ice on his finger, ice in his head, ice in his glassy stare.

“From
The Ballad of Blasphemous Bill,
” the president explained. “Robert Service. Early twentieth century. He wrote about the Yukon. Cotton’s daddy was obviously a fan.”

Malone had told her how he’d found the frozen body,
ice in his glassy stare.

“Malone’s a pro,” Daniels said. “He knows the rules and his father knew them, too. It’s tough for us to judge folks from forty years ago by today’s standards. He needs to get over it.”

“Easier said than done,” she made clear.

“Millicent’s family needs to be told,” Davis said. “They deserve the truth.”

“I agree,” Daniels said. “I assume you want to do that?”

Davis nodded.

Daniels smiled. “And there was one bright spot through all this.” The president pointed at Stephanie. “You didn’t get fired.”

She grinned. “For which I’m eternally grateful.”

“I owe you an apology,” Davis said to McCoy. “I misread you. I haven’t been a good co-worker. I thought you were an idiot.”

“You always so honest?” McCoy asked.

“You didn’t have to do what you did. You put your ass on the line for something that didn’t really involve you.”

“I wouldn’t say that. Ramsey was a threat to national security. That’s in our job description. And he killed Millicent Senn.”

“Thank you.”

McCoy gave Davis a nod of gratitude.

“Now that’s what I like to see,” Daniels said. “Everybody getting along. See, a lot of good can come from wrestling rattlesnakes.”

The tension in the room abated.

Daniels shifted in his chair. “With that out of the way, unfortunately we have a new problem—one that also involves Cotton Malone, whether he likes it or not.”

M
ALONE SWITCHED OFF THE GROUND-FLOOR LIGHTS AND CLIMBED
to his fourth-floor apartment. The shop had been busy today. Three days before Christmas and books seemed to be on Copenhagen’s gift list. He employed three people who kept the store open while he was gone, for which he was grateful. So much that he’d made sure each of them received a generous holiday bonus.

He was still conflicted about his father.

They’d buried him where his mother’s family lay. Stephanie had come. Pam, his ex-wife, was there. Gary had been emotional, seeing his grandfather for the first time lying in the casket. Thanks to the deep freeze and a skillful mortician, Forrest Malone lay as if he’d died only a few days before.

He’d told the navy to go to hell when they suggested a military ceremony with honors. Too late for that. Didn’t matter that no one there had participated in the inexplicable decision not to search for NR-1A. He’d had enough of orders and duty and responsibility. What had happened to decency, righteousness, and honor? Those words seemed always forgotten when they really counted. Like when eleven men disappeared in the Antarctic and no one gave a damn.

He made it to the top floor and switched on a few lamps. He was tired. The past couple of weeks had taken a toll, capped off by watching his mother burst into tears as the coffin was lowered into the ground. They’d all lingered after and watched as workers replaced the dirt and erected a tombstone.

“You did a wonderful thing,”
his mother had said to him.
“You brought him home. He would have been so proud of you, Cotton. So very proud.”

And those words had made him cry.

Finally.

He’d almost stayed in Georgia for Christmas but decided to come home. Strange, how he now considered Denmark home.

Yet he did. And that no longer gave him pause.

He walked into the bedroom and lay down on the bed. Nearly eleven
PM
and he was exhausted. He had to stop this intrigue. He was supposed to be retired. But he was glad he’d called in his favor with Stephanie.

Tomorrow he’d rest. Sunday was always a light day. Stores were closed. Maybe he’d drive north and visit with Henrik Thorvaldsen. He hadn’t seen his friend in three weeks. But maybe not. Thorvaldsen would want to know where he’d been, and what had happened, and he wasn’t ready to relive it.

For now, he’d sleep.

Malone awoke and cleared the dream from his mind. The bedside clock read 2:34
AM.
Lights were still on throughout the apartment. He’d been sleeping for three hours.

But something had roused him. A sound. Part of the dream he’d been having, yet not.

He heard it again.

Three squeaks in quick succession.

His building was seventeenth century, completely remodeled a few months ago after being firebombed. Afterward, the new wooden risers from the second to the third floor always announced themselves in a precise order, like keys on a piano.

Which meant someone was there.

He reached beneath the bed and found the rucksack he always kept ready—a habit from his Magellan Billet days. Inside, his right hand gripped the Beretta automatic, a round already chambered.

He crept from the bedroom.

WRITER’S NOTE

This book was a personal journey for both Malone and myself. While he found his father, I got married. Not necessarily something new for me, but definitely an adventure. As far as traveling, this story led me to Germany (Aachen and Bavaria), the French Pyrénées, and Asheville, North Carolina (the Biltmore Estate). Lots of cold, snowy places.

Now it’s time to separate speculation from reality.

The super-secret NR-1 submarine (prologue) is real, as are its history and its exploits. NR-1 continues to this day, after almost forty years, to serve our nation. NR-1A is my concoction. There are precious few written accounts of NR-1, but the one I drew upon is
Dark Waters,
by Lee Vyborny and Don Davis, which is a rare firsthand observation of what it was like to be aboard. The court of inquiry report on the sinking of NR-1A (
chapter 5
) is modeled on actual investigative reports regarding the sinking of
Thresher
and
Scorpion.

The Zugspitze and Garmisch are faithfully described (
chapter 1
), as is the Posthotel. Holiday time in Bavaria is wonderful, and the Christmas markets detailed in
chapters 13
,
33
, and
37
are, without question, part of the attraction. Ettal Abbey (
chapter 7
) is accurately described, save for the rooms beneath.

Charlemagne is, of course, pivotal to the story. His historical context, as presented, is accurate (
chapter 36
), as is his signature (
chapter 10
). He remains one of the world’s most enigmatic figures and still carries the title
Father of Europe.
The authenticity of the story of Otto III entering Charlemagne’s grave in 1000
CE
is a matter of debate. The tale featured in
chapter 10
has been repeated many times—though, of course, the strange book Otto finds is my addition. There are equally strong stories that say Charlemagne was buried lying down, inside a marble sarcophagus (
chapter 34
). No one knows for sure.

Einhard’s
Life of Charlemagne
continues to be regarded as one of the great works from that period. Einhard himself was a learned man, and his involvement with Charlemagne, as described, is accurate. Only their connection to the Holy Ones is my invention. Einhard’s accounts quoted in
chapters 21
and
22
are loosely based on portions of the Book of Enoch—an ancient, enigmatic text.

Operations Highjump and Windmill happened as described (
chapter 11
). Both were extensive military operations. Much about them remained classified for decades and is still shrouded in mystery. Admiral Richard Byrd was co-leader of Highjump. My descriptions of the technological resources Byrd brought south with him (
chapter 53
) are accurate, as is the tale of his extensive exploration of the continent. His secret diary (
chapter 77
) is fictitious, as are his supposed findings of carved stones and ancient tomes. The German Antarctic expedition of 1938 (
chapter 19
) happened and is accurately detailed—including the dropping of little swastikas all over the icy surface. Only Hermann Oberhauser’s exploits are my creations.

The strange writing and manuscript pages (
chapters 12
and
81
) are reproduced from the Voynich manuscript. That book rests in the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library at Yale University, and is generally regarded as the most mysterious writing on the planet. No one has ever been able to decipher its text. A good primer on this oddity is
The Voynich Manuscript,
by Gerry Kennedy and Rob Churchill. The symbol first seen in
chapter 10
—a monad—came from their book, an archetypal representation originally found in a sixteenth-century treatise. The strange Oberhauser family crest (
chapter 25
) also is from Kennedy and Churchill’s book and is actually the Voynich family coat of arms, created by Voynich himself.

The true explanation of the term
Aryan
(
chapter 12
) demonstrates how something so innocuous can become so lethal. The Ahnenerbe, of course, existed. Only in the past few years have historians begun to reveal both its pseudo-scientific chaos and its horrible atrocities (
chapter 26
). One of the best resources on the topic is
The Master Plan,
by Heather Pringle. The Ahnenerbe’s many international expeditions, detailed in
chapter 31
, happened and were used extensively to fashion its scientific fiction. Hermann Oberhauser’s involvement with the organization is my invention, but his efforts and discrediting are based on the experiences of actual participants.

The concept of a first civilization (
chapter 22
) is not mine. The idea has been the basis for many books, but Christopher Knight and Alan Butler’s
Civilization One
is excellent. All of the arguments Christl Falk and Douglas Scofield advance for the existence of this first civilization belong to Knight and Butler. Their theory is not all that farfetched, but the reaction to it is similar to how mainstream science once viewed continental drift (
chapter 84
). Of course, the most obvious question remains. If such a culture existed, why are there no remnants?

But maybe there are.

The stories detailed by Scofield in
chapter 60
about “god-like” people interacting with cultures around the world are true, as are the inexplicable artifacts found and the story of what Columbus was shown. Even more amazing are the image and inscription from Hathor Temple in Egypt (
chapter 84
), which clearly show something extraordinary. Sadly, though, Scofield’s observation that 90 percent of the ancient world’s knowledge will never be known is potentially true. Which means we may never have a definitive answer to this fascinating inquiry.

Locating the first civilization in Antarctica (
chapters 72
,
85
, and
86
) was my idea, as are the civilization’s knowledge and limited technology (
chapters 72
and
81
). I didn’t visit Antarctica (it’s definitely at the top of my Must-See list), but its beauty and danger are faithfully reported using firsthand accounts. Halvorsen Base (
chapter 62
) is fictitious, but the cold-weather gear Malone and company don is real (
chapter 76
). The politics of the Antarctic continent (
chapter 76
), with its various international treaties and unique cooperative rules, remains complex. The area where Malone explores (
chapter 84
) is indeed controlled by Norway, and some texts note that it is designated as off limits for supposed environmental reasons. The underwater sequences with Ramsey are taken from those who have dove those pristine waters. The dry valleys (
chapter 84
) exist, though they’re generally confined to the southern portion of the continent. The preserving and destructive effects of absolute cold on human bodies are accurately portrayed (
chapters 90
and
91
).
Ice,
by Mariana Gosnell, is an excellent account of these phenomena.

Aachen cathedral (
chapters 34
,
36
,
38
, and
42
) is well worth a visit. The Book of Revelation played a key role in its design, and the building remains one of the last from Charlemagne’s time still standing. Of course, my interjection of the Holy Ones into its history is simply part of this story.

The Latin inscription inside the chapel (
chapter 38
) is from Charlemagne’s time and is reproduced exactly. While counting every twelfth word I discovered that only three words would be revealed, the last count stopping at number eleven. Then, amazingly, the three words formed a recognizable phrase—
Brightness of God.

Charlemagne’s throne does indeed have a Nine Men’s Morris board etched into its side (
chapter 38
). How and why it’s there, nobody knows. The game was played in Roman and Carolingian times, and is still played today.

The Charlemagne pursuit, with all of its various clues, including Einhard’s will, are my invention. Ossau, France (
chapter 51
), and the abbey (
chapter 54
) are concocted, but Bertrand is based on a real abbot who lived in that area.

Fort Lee (
chapter 45
) is real, though the warehouse and refrigerated compartment are not. I’ve recently acquired an iPhone, so Malone had to have one, too. All of the peculiar investigations conducted by the US government during the Cold War into paranormal and extraterrestrial phenomena (
chapter 26
) happened. I simply added one more.

Biltmore Estate (
chapters 58
,
59
, and
66
) is one of my favorite places, especially at Christmastime. The inn, mansion, village, hotel, and grounds are accurately portrayed. Of course, the Ancient Mysteries Revealed Conference does not exist, but it is based on a variety of real gatherings.

The Piri Reis map and other portolans (
chapter 41
) are real, and each one raises a host of perplexing questions.
Maps of the Ancient Sea Kings,
by Charles Hapgood, is regarded as the definitive work on this subject. The prime meridian debate happened as described (
chapter 41
), and Greenwich was arbitrarily chosen. Using the Giza pyramid as zero longitude (
chapter 71
), though, does produce some fascinating connections with sacred sites around the globe. The megalithic yard (
chapter 71
) is another interesting concept that rationally explains similarities engineers have long noticed at ancient construction sites. But proof of its existence has not, as yet, been established.

This story poses some interesting possibilities. Not of a mythical Atlantis with surreal engineering and fantastic technology, but instead the simple idea that we may not have been the first to achieve intellectual consciousness. Perhaps there were others whose existence is simply unknown, their history and fate extinguished, lost among the 90 percent of ancient knowledge we may never recover.

Far-fetched? Impossible?

How many times have the so-called experts been proven wrong?

Lao-tzu, the great Chinese philosopher who lived 2,700 years ago and is still regarded as one of humankind’s most brilliant thinkers, may have known best when he wrote:

The Ancient Masters were subtle, mysterious, profound, responsive.
The depth of their knowledge is unfathomable.
Because it is unfathomable, all we can do is describe their appearance. Watchful, like men crossing a winter stream. Alert, like men aware of danger. Courteous, like visiting guests. Yielding, like ice about to melt. Simple, like uncarved blocks of wood.