Valhalla (14 page)

28 November
West Wing
White House
Washington, DC

Cold rain was spattering the windows of his office when Ira Dusenberry got back from the Redskins game in Landover. He was in a sour mood after watching them get punched out again by the Cowboys after their new quarterback threw five interceptions.

Removing his wet loafers and socks, the deputy assistant national security adviser to the president rubbed his frigid toes into the deep-pile carpet and loosened his pants to help relieve his bloated stomach.

In spite of his vow to maintain a healthier diet, he had assuaged his frustrations at the game by devouring three Italian sausage subs with peppers and onions, and washing them down with a half dozen beers.

There was a loud knock on his door. It swung open to reveal Addison Kingship, his Bogart-styled trench coat saturated with rain.

“This had better be important,” he growled.

Taking off his trench coat, Kingship hung it on the rack behind the door and sat down in one of the leather club chairs. Through the windows behind Dusenberry's desk, the needle of the Washington Monument was bathed in floodlights.

Jessica Birdwell arrived a few moments later, somehow looking impervious to the rain. Cool and imperturbable as always, she was wearing an ivory cocktail dress cut just above the knees.

“Did you see the goddamn Skins game?” Dusenberry asked as Jessica took the other club chair.

“I couldn't care less, Ira,” growled Kingship, a former tailback at Princeton. “Just tell us what's going on.”

Dusenberry furtively lowered his left hand behind his massive desk and began massaging his aching stomach.

“I need to bring you up to speed on the John Lee Hancock situation,” he said. “On my way back from Landover, I received another call from Mark Devlin, the head of security at Anschutz in Dallas. He had just gotten off the phone with Steven Macaulay, who was Hancock's number two at the company and a member of the Greenland expedition. Macaulay told him that Hancock had been murdered along with most of the other members by some kind of elite military unit equipped with attack helicopters.”

“Where was he calling from?” asked Kingship.

“Right now he's at a former U.S. air base in southern Greenland at Narsassuaq,” said Dusenberry. “Macaulay claims that Hancock discovered something on the ice cap that set off the massacre of his team. The only other survivor is an archaeologist they brought up there to document the findings. Macaulay asked to have the FBI or Homeland Security waiting for him when he lands in Bangor.”

“We should call off the special mission unit we've deployed to Halifax from Joint Special Operations Command,” said Jess. “They've been on immediate standby.”

“Agreed,” said Dusenberry.

“What is this discovery?' asked Kingship.

Dusenberry shook his head wearily.

“Don't laugh,” he said. “It's something involving ancient Vikings.”

Jess looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

“Yesterday it was an Arab commando team,” said Kingship. “Today it's the goddamn Vikings. This whole thing sounds like a hoax, with Hancock looking for his fifteen minutes.”

“That's not his style,” said Dusenberry, “and we have to treat it as a legitimate threat. Whatever happened up there, it has apparently cost a lot of people their lives, and the president will want to know why.”

“How is Macaulay getting to Bangor?” asked Kingship.

“One of the small jets in Hancock's air fleet was left in Narsassuaq to bring out the expedition team. Macaulay is a retired air force brigadier. He'll be flying it to Bangor as soon as the weather clears. According to Devlin, he and the archaeologist have no papers or passports. Everything they had was lost. He wants federal protection for himself and the archaeologist as soon as they arrive.”

“How do we know Macaulay didn't go rogue?” asked Jess. “It's happened before.”

“I have no idea,” said Dusenberry.

“We have an FBI satellite office in Portland,” said the still-skeptical Kingship.

“If any of Macaulay's claims are true, I think we need more horsepower than regional field staff,” said Jess.

“I agree,” said Dusenberry.

“What about a senior agent from our new domestic antiterrorism task force?” suggested Jess. “Maybe Jim Langdon.”

“I had him in my shop for two years,” said Kingship. “Top-notch.”

The task force had recently been put together to synchronize the counterterrorsim activities of nine different federal agencies, including the FBI, the Defense Intelligence Agency, and Homeland Security. Langdon was a former combat infantry officer who had joined the FBI under Kingship and had later gone on to Homeland Security.

“That's fine,” said Dusenberry. “And, Ad, you'll probably want to give a heads-up to the satellite office in Portland. They can provide backup.”

28 November
FBI Regional Office
West Tower
Portland, Maine

Special Agent Eamon Gallagher, Jr., surveyed the Portland skyline through the picture window of the bureau conference room, and felt the first pure jolt of excitement he had ever experienced in his four-year FBI career.

Eamon was the only special agent left in the office that day, which was why he was given the high-priority classified dispatch just received from FBI headquarters in Washington.

The dispatch confirmed that James Langdon, a member of the president's domestic antiterrorism task force, would be arriving at the Portland airport in less than an hour and required backup assistance from the regional FBI office to conduct an interview with two Americans arriving from Greenland who had uncovered a possible terrorist plot.

Eamon quickly downloaded Langdon's background credentials from the Home Security personnel database. Langdon was a West Point graduate and had retired from the army as a major after serving three tours of duty in Iraq. He had been awarded two Silver Stars.

At five feet six, the twenty-nine-year-old Eamon struck no heroic figure, at least to himself. Nevertheless, he yearned to be a hero. It was why he had joined the FBI. On September 11, 2001, he had been working as an accountant for a tax preparer when the World Trade Center was attacked. His father had been one of the first responders who disappeared into the red dust. The loss changed Eamon's life. After considering what he could do to honor his father's memory, he found his future on the FBI Web site.

Become a special agent,
the Internet banner read.
It is challenging. It is exciting. It is rewarding. And every day you have a chance to serve your country.

“Eamon, we need you in accounting,” the placement coordinator told him after he graduated near the top of his class at the FBI Academy.

For the next three years, he sat in Washington, reviewing expense files. Every time he applied for an operational assignment, his supervisor took him aside to say he was accomplishing far more with his spreadsheets. He had finally been transferred to the Portland regional office.

Eamon checked the pistol in his hip holster. With his small hands, he had never been comfortable with the full-sized Glock 21. Instead, he carried the baby Glock 26 subcompact 9 mm. He had fired it only on the shooting range.

At the Portland airport, Eamon presented his FBI credentials to the guard at the charter terminal. He was walking toward the flight desk when a voice called out, “Special Agent Gaskins?”

Eamon recognized him from the photo in the personnel database.

“Don was called away on another assignment,” he said, reaching up to shake the man's hand. “I'm Eamon Gallagher.”

“Jim Langdon,” said the big man.

He looked like a combat soldier, rugged and deeply tanned, with a full head of prematurely gray hair.

“We got an early start out of Andrews,” said Langdon. “I wanted to make sure we have security in place at Bangor when General Macaulay arrives.”

“We'll give you our full cooperation and support,” said Eamon as they walked to the plane.

“I assume you know why I'm here,” said Langdon.

“I read the briefing memo,” said Eamon.

“It's pretty muddled,” said Langdon. “One report suggests that an Arab terrorist group unleashed an attack on John Lee Hancock's Greenland expedition, and another indicates there is some sort of Viking connection. We're here to learn what happened.”

During the short hop from Portland up to Bangor, Eamon found it hard to contain his excitement. At one point, he closed his eyes and focused on breathing calmly. When he opened them again, Langdon was staring at him. Eamon kept wondering what he had done to earn the Silver Stars, but he didn't want to ask him directly.

“What was Iraq like?” he said instead.

A full minute passed.

“Betrayal,” said Langdon.

A fleeting image of Jake Nash's ruined face stampeded through Langdon's brain as it had every day since the moment he had caught up to the caravan of abandoned vehicles in his Humvee and shined his flashlight into the backseat.

Langdon had been a company commander when the request came in from the governor general of their province to provide protection for a Shiite religious celebration. He and Jake Nash were sent down in a rotating combat team to provide the security presence. Their headquarters, inside an Iraqi police complex next to the governor's office, was protected by an electronic security cordon.

Langdon had just handed off command to Jake and left the headquarters, when a convoy of eight SUVs filled with men wearing American uniforms was waved through the gates by Iraqi police. The intruders exited the SUVs, firing automatic weapons. Five Americans were killed. Four more, including Jake, were taken away alive as the Iraqi police stood by.

A frantic chase ensued as the vehicles headed north into the night. It ended an hour later on a deserted road. Jake and two of the other soldiers were already dead, their hands tied behind their backs. Langdon hoped the fourth man would die quickly. Like the others, his eyes had been gouged out with knives. The attackers had cut off the men's balls and stuffed their penises in their mouths.

In the following days, the battalion's S2 staff built a case that the governor general had been complicit in the attack. One of the vehicles was registered to his wife and forensic evidence placed one of his bodyguards in the vehicle Jake had died in.

Langdon asked when the killers would be arrested.

“My hands are tied, Jim,” said the battalion commander. “The governor is part of the prime minister's inner circle. I had to apologize to him for disrupting the religious celebration. Forget about it and do your job.”

After the last American military unit left Iraq in 2011, Langdon had returned to Baghdad as a member of the president's new antiterrorism task force. The visit was designed to provide him with an update on the continued presence of Al Qaeda operatives in the region. He spent four days in the country.

On the day of his return to Washington, Langdon picked up the daily CIA briefing summary. It reported that the former governor general had been found dead early that morning on a deserted road north of the city, his body showing signs of horrific torture before he was killed.

Langdon looked out the window of the passenger jet and saw it was snowing as they descended toward Bangor. He said a silent prayer for both forgiveness and deliverance.

29 November
Bangor International Airport
Bangor, Maine

Flying on instruments, Macaulay dropped through a dense snow ceiling until the de Havilland finally broke into the clear at five hundred feet. Sitting next to him in the copilot's seat, Lexy awoke from a deep sleep and watched the curtain of wet snow lashing the windshield as they came in to land.

“Are we back in Greenland?” she asked.

“We're almost back in the good old USA,” said Macaulay wearily.

“I'm glad we're still alive to see it,” Lexy said.

“I spoke to Mark Devlin at Anschutz before we took off,” said Macaulay, “and he assured me the FBI would be here waiting for us. We're to be placed under immediate federal protection.”

As he taxied the plane off the runway, Bangor tower control radioed him with directions to deplane at a security gate near the general aviation terminal. They taxied past the brightly lit main terminal, some dark hangars, and the long-term parking facility.

A dozen small planes, all deeply covered by snow, were parked on the apron. At the security gate, Macaulay brought the de Havilland to a stop and shut down the engines. He and Lexy climbed out of the cockpit.

She began shivering again as soon as they were on the ice-coated tarmac. In the distance, Lexy saw four Bangor police cars, their strobe lights flashing, deployed at the front and rear entrances to the terminal. At the rear entrance, two men in overcoats were waiting for them under the concrete portico. One was tall; the other quite short.

“Welcome home,” the short one called out.

Inside, the terminal was deserted, its overhead lights revealing a large waiting room with old leather chairs and couches surrounding an empty flight desk.

“All the charter flights have been canceled because of the weather,” said Langdon. “I had the Bangor police stake out the terminal in case news of your arrival somehow reached the wrong people.”

Macaulay asked to see their credentials. The taller man, Langdon, was a member of the White House domestic antiterrorism task force. He looked ex-military. The smaller one, Eamon Gallagher, Jr., was a regional FBI agent. He looked like an accountant.

“I've arranged for us to talk in a secure office on the second floor,” said Langdon.

The second-floor corridor was as empty as the first. A bulletin board on the painted concrete block wall proclaimed that Carlos Lugo, a member of the lavatory staff from Orono, was the terminal's employee of the month.

Langdon led them into a well-lit conference room surrounded by leather armchairs. When Langdon removed his overcoat, Macaulay noticed the Silver Star ribbon on the lapel of his suit jacket.

“Second Gulf War?” asked Macaulay.

Langdon nodded. “Operation Iraqi Freedom, they called it.”

“I was there for the first one,” said Macaulay.

“I'm sure we both lost friends over there, General,” said Langdon.

He asked them to take the two seats opposite the video camera mounted on one side of the conference table.

“I know you both must be tired, but we need your statements as soon as possible,” he said, opening his briefcase and removing an iPad. “A transcript of the interview will go out electronically as soon as we're finished. These days, nothing is hoarded. Fifty agents from different shops will be working this case by tomorrow morning. For now, we just need to know everything that happened so we can go after the people who did this.”

As Lexy sat down, the little agent set a plastic tray in front of her and then delivered a second one to Macaulay.

“Maine's finest,” he said, smiling.

She gazed down at a lobster roll stuffed with big chunks of meat surrounded by a heaping mound of onion rings and French fries. A hand-baked chocolate chip cookie flanked the plate.

“We thought you might be hungry,” said Eamon.

“I'm ravenous,” said Lexy as he brought over two mugs of coffee.

While they ate, Langdon turned on the video equipment and adjusted the settings.

“The fragmentary reports we've received about what happened up there sound pretty ridiculous,” he said. “The first one involved an Arab commando team and the second concerned a group of Vikings.”

“There weren't any Arabs up there,” said Macaulay as he finished his coffee. “Someone sent you a red herring there.”

“Fine,” said Langdon. “Let's get started.”

Lexy began first, describing her arrival at the expedition site, the discovery of the Vikings in the deep cave, the existence of the rune tablet, and the events that followed, including the arrival of the attackers, the removal of the artifacts, and the destruction of the camp.

“So you're saying that every member of the expedition, with the exception of Professor Jensen and General Macaulay, is dead,” said Langdon.

“Yes,” responded Lexy.

Macaulay took over at that point and described what had occurred in the wake of Falconer's murder, the sabotaging of his helicopter by Jensen, the return to the destroyed base camp, and the trek across the ice cap to the coast.

“I'm sure they are still looking for us,” he concluded.

“Without a doubt,” agreed Langdon. “You're incredibly fortunate to be here.”

In spite of the harrowing nature of the events the pair described, Eamon was riveted by each new revelation. This was why he had joined the FBI, to bring a band of vicious terrorists like this to justice.

“Well, I guess that does it,” said Langdon, turning off the video recorder and pulling a large brown envelope out of his briefcase. Opening it, he sorted through a sheaf of photographs that were inside, and handed one to Lexy.

“Do you recognize this man?” he asked.

“Yes, that's Hjalmar Jensen.”

“And this one?”

“Sir Dorian Bond,” she said.

“How about this man?” he asked, handing her a third photograph.

It was the blond leader of the commando team.

“How did you . . . ?”

“His name is Joachim Halvorsen. They call him the Lynx,” said Langdon. “He is a former commando in the Norwegian Special Forces.”

“Then you already know who they are,” said Lexy. “That's a relief.”

Langdon nodded and said, “Could you recognize any of the attackers aside from those two if you saw them again?”

“I'm sure I could,” said Lexy.

As Langdon took back the photographs, she noticed the lower rim of a small tattoo on the back of his wrist. Most of it was hidden by his watch, but it somehow looked familiar.

“You said this other archaeologist, Mr. Falconer, was murdered by Professor Jensen because he acquired valuable information about the discovery, is that correct?” asked Langdon.

“It's a memory card from his Nikon camera,” said Macaulay. “Our assumption is that Falconer photographed the rune tablet containing the saga of Leif Eriksson's last voyage, including his burial place somewhere on the East Coast.”

“That would change history,” said Eamon.

“Where is the memory card now?” asked Langdon.

Lexy felt a growing sense of alarm. She tried to get Macaulay's attention by prodding him in the knee, but he was already answering the agent's question.

“We have it here with us,” said Macaulay.

“Good,” said Langdon. “Then we have everything we need. The sooner we get the memory card to Washington, the sooner we can begin to decipher its secrets and get a better understanding of why it was important enough to massacre fourteen men.”

“I can't think of any reason to send it into the bureaucratic maze,” said Lexy, looking to buy time. “There is no one there more capable than I am of deciphering those markings. I would be one of the first people they called to make the translation.”

Macaulay sensed the change in attitude.

“That may be true,” said Langdon, “but there are national security implications involved here, and the card needs to be put in the hands of people who can measure its overall importance.”

“I've already measured its importance,” she said. “As long as General Macaulay and I are receiving federal protection, these issues will resolve themselves.”

“Please give me the memory card,” said Langdon.

“No,” said Lexy as Macaulay continued staring at her.

Langdon reached back into his leather briefcase. His right hand emerged from it holding a Heckler & Koch P2000 semiautomatic pistol. A silencer was screwed into the barrel.

“I'm sorry about this, Eamon,” said Langdon.

He pointed the pistol at the FBI agent and fired a single shot into his chest. Eamon's eyes registered shock and pain as he collapsed to the floor behind the conference table. Lexy stared down at his lifeless body. A dense stream of blood began spreading across the polished linoleum floor.

“I need that memory card,” said Langdon, aiming the pistol at Macaulay.

“Why should we make it easy for you?” said Macaulay. “You're going to kill us anyway.”

“My orders are to kill only one of you,” said Langdon, his eyes filling. “I take no pleasure in murder, particularly people like Eamon who did not deserve to die, but I am on a mission and it's a sacred one. I must do what is required of me. Each one of us is expected to fight, to sacrifice ourselves, to die if necessary.”

“Why did you have to kill him?” asked Lexy.

“No one must be allowed to learn of this discovery, at least right now,” said Langdon, training the pistol on them. “The future of the world is at stake. I know this will give you no solace, but I am part of a movement committed to saving it. I must have the memory card.”

“No,” repeated Lexy firmly.

“Since one of you obviously has it and I don't know which, I have to ask you to remove your clothing and pass it across the table.”

“You are sick,” said Macaulay.

“The world is sick,” said Langdon. “No more delay.”

Lexy knew their only hope was to buy more time. The memory card was still in her boot, and it was the last thing she planned to hand over. By then, someone, maybe one of the police officers outside, would come to investigate where they had gone and end the nightmare.

Macaulay handed over his shirt. Langdon spread it on the table and used his left hand to examine the pockets and lining while keeping the gun aimed at them with his right. Lexy's flannel shirt came next. Removing her bra, she tossed it across the table.

“Would you like to examine these too?” she said, trying to sound provocative.

“No,” said Langdon, watching Macaulay.

As Lexy reached down to unlace her boots, she saw a hint of movement out of the corner of her eye. The little agent was lying on his side, facing away from her, but his right-hand fingers were moving through the expanding pool of blood. His fingers paused for a few moments and then started moving again as his consciousness came and went.

She left her boots on the floor and stood up to remove her corduroy pants. After dropping them on the table, she glanced down again. Eamon's hand was now at the hip holster on his slacks.

Langdon finished searching Macaulay's trousers and said, “Let's have your boots.”

Macaulay handed them over.

The gun was now in the little agent's hand. She gently prodded Macaulay in the ribs, trying to signal that something was about to happen. He glanced back, trying to divine her thoughts.

Eamon was close to losing consciousness for the last time. God, there was so much of his blood on the floor. He didn't know he had that much inside him. There couldn't be much left. There was only the chance to save the others.

Through the dizziness and pain, he could see Langdon's legs on the far side of the table. He considered shooting upward through the table and trying to hit him in the chest. But what if he missed? His knees were less than five feet away. It would be hard to miss at that range. But first he needed to raise the gun off the floor.

“And now your boots, Dr. Vaughan,” he heard Langdon say.

The handgrip of the baby Glock was slippery with blood and felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. It took all his strength to raise the barrel a few inches off the floor. Langdon's legs were swimming in and out of focus as wave after wave of nausea swept over him.

“Thank you, Dr. Vaughan,” said Langdon as he pulled the memory card from her boot. “We're done here. Now if you promise me . . .”

When the shot roared out, Macaulay saw Langdon's face contort with pain before he staggered to his feet and fired the silenced pistol three times through the tabletop. The third round ripped through Eamon's forehead, blowing his brains out. By then, Macaulay had launched himself across the table, grabbing Langdon's gun hand and wrestling him to the floor.

Grunting with desperate effort, they fought for the gun. Even with a bullet in his knee, Langdon was stronger and far more experienced in hand-to-hand combat. Trapped in a headlock, Macaulay watched as the barrel of the pistol turned inward toward his belly.

Another shot rang out, and Langdon went limp in his arms. Macaulay wrenched the pistol from his hand and shoved him away. He looked up to see Lexy standing above them and holding the other agent's gun in her hand.

Langdon rolled over on his back. The bullet had torn through the side of his chest and punctured his lungs. They watched as he spit out bloody foam. His breathing was reduced to brief spasmodic gasps as he stared up at them.

“Valhalla,” he cried out before his eyes rolled up inside his head.

Macaulay felt his carotid artery.

“He's dead,” he said.

Lexy knelt next to Langdon and raised his left arm. Unstrapping the wristwatch, she examined the tattoo in the harsh overhead lights. It wasn't the flukes of an anchor. She recognized the symbol immediately.

“I doubt the police outside could have heard your shot over the noise of the wind,” said Macaulay while he dressed. “We'll know soon enough.”