Valhalla (21 page)

3 December
The White House
Washington, DC

Turning to face the battery of television cameras arrayed across the side wall of the East Room, the president pressed the switch to light the eighteen-foot-tall Douglas fir tree, now decorated with hundreds of handmade ornaments and colorful decorations from schoolchildren all over the country.

“As we enter this joyous season,” began the president solemnly, “let us show appreciation to all our troops who will be spending the upcoming holiday overseas, risking their lives every day to defend the freedoms we hold dear.”

Standing behind him beneath the Gilbert Stuart oil painting of President George Washington, Jessica Birdwell led the applause. Ira Dusenberry, on the other side of the East Room near the buffet table, was gazing longingly at the small mountain of iced jumbo shrimp and the pewter platters piled with smoked salmon. They would have to wait. He was on a mission.

When the president finished his remarks, Dusenberry worked his way through the throng of applauding guests until he reached Jessica's side.

“Jess, I need to talk to you if Senator Fowler can spare us two minutes,” he said.

In the Red Room, he led her over to one of the Empire couches and sat down.

“As of yesterday evening, General Macaulay was still in Boston,” he said, “which means that Dr. Vaughan is there too. The manager of a Patagonia outlet at a downtown mall reported to police that a man who fit Macaulay's description was involved in an altercation there late last night. A male shopper in one of the changing rooms saw the other man in the altercation carrying what appeared to be an automatic pistol. By the time police arrived, both men were gone. The witnesses were shown a photograph of Macaulay and they both confirmed it was him.”

“Any ID on the other man?” asked Jess.

“He disappeared before the police got there and presumably is not one of ours,” said Dusenberry as an elderly man came into the Red Room and sat down on an Empire chair. The man had a beefy face with a thin mustache and vaguely reminded him of someone.

“We sent a team into the mall,” went on Dusenberry. “There was a small bank of pay phones opposite the North Face outlet, and they ran a trace on all outgoing calls from those phones during the time frame Macaulay had been there.”

Two white-coated waiters came by, one carrying a silver tray full of canapés, and the other wine and champagne. Dusenberry selected three puff pastries stuffed with chanterelle mushrooms, pancetta, and garlic.

“And?” demanded Jessica as he consumed one of the pastries in a single bite.

“And one of the calls was of possible interest,” he said, washing down the canapé with a swallow of red wine. “It went to a CIA-connected cell phone. Identity restricted.”

“Even to us?”

“We would have to ask the CIA officially. It would take days and probably lead nowhere.”

“What's your take?” asked Jessica.

Ira glanced again at the beefy man, who now appeared to be gazing at the painting of John Jay Audubon hanging over their couch. Tennessee Williams. He looked like Tennessee Williams at the end of his life.

“Macaulay has a friend at the CIA,” said Dusenberry. “Not a problem for us. Maybe the agency will help track him down.”

“Do you know that man?” she whispered as Dusenberry finished his third canapé.

“A seersucker suit in December,” he whispered back. “He's probably one of the president's campaign guys. They're all flaky.”

Getting up from the couch, he led her back to the East Room.

“Keep me posted from your end,” he said, heading toward the buffet table.

Jessica had just received her overcoat from a handsome young marine in the foyer when she felt her cell phone begin to tremble against the inside of her thigh. She took the call in a small private bathroom down the corridor.

“Jess, this is Marc,” came the disembodied voice.

“What have you got?” she said, lowering her voice an octave.

She had met Marc Goodrich shortly after her posting to Homeland Security. He was already a fair-haired boy in the bureau and was now overseeing the joint surveillance task force looking for Macaulay, Finchem, and Vaughan.

“So we've been monitoring about three hundred people who had even the remotest level of contact with this Harvard professor Finchem,” said Goodrich.

“Right,” she came back. “We're the ones who initiated the interagency request.”

“Okay. Well, I've hit pay dirt.”

“Tell me,” she said, her eyes coming alive.

“One of the thousand bits of raw data logged by my teams was the fact that a PhD candidate named Delia Glantz, who is one of Finchem's graduate students, registered a brand-new Lexus SUV earlier this week at the Massachusetts DMV office in Boston.”

“What's so unusual about that?”

“Nothing,” he said. “But this afternoon she went to a Hertz agency in Cambridge and rented a car. When the hit came in, there was nothing else happening. On a hunch, I paid her a visit three hours ago, showed her a fake police ID, and told her I was investigating an accidental death. Gorgeous girl by the way . . .”

“Just tell me what happened,” interrupted Jessica.

“All right,” he said, stung by her tone. “I could tell she was nervous, so I said that her SUV had been in a terrible accident and we were attempting to identify the victims. She broke down and began sobbing that she should have been with him. ‘Who?' I asked. ‘Dr. Finchem,' she said.”

“That's great work, Marc,” said Jessica.

“Here is the other piece of good news,” said Goodrich. “Her brand-new Lexus is equipped with a theft-prevention tracking device.”

“Fantastic. Where is the car now?”

“South Harpswell, Maine. The GPS coordinates put it at a boat charter outfit. The tracking platform delivers real-time updates every ten seconds. The vehicle hasn't moved in two hours.”

“Send me all the data on the car to my secure computer address.”

“Will do.”

“I need to confide something to you that is vitally important,” said Jessica, her voice going even lower. “There is a security breach here in the White House. We know whoever it is must be tied to the foreign organization responsible for the murder of Jim Langdon. This information must be closely held in case it gets into the wrong hands. I have to insert a clean operational unit.”

“Understood,” said Goodrich. “You and Ad Kingship are giving the orders. Just remember who broke the lead when the awards are handed out.”

“Don't worry,” said Jessica, ending the connection.

Her next call was to a secure automated reception line.

“This is Freya. I will be sending further information electronically, but I have pinpointed the location of Finchem and Vaughan.”

4 December
RV
Leitstern
North Atlantic Ocean
Off Rockland, Maine

“We have made good progress, Your Grace,” said Hjalmar Jensen.

Von Falkenberg had made another unannounced visit to ask for an update from Jensen's translation team. He had brought Per Larsen with him. The faithful Steiger helped the prince to settle into a cushioned chair.

“Please specify that,” said von Falkenberg.

“Thanks to the excellent work of Dr. Krusa and Fraulein Johannson, we have narrowed our search to just twenty-five small islands off the Maine coast,” said Jensen. “It will now be necessary to assemble search teams to visit each of these islands to garner the additional information that can narrow the search further.”

The prince's face clouded.

“That is unacceptable,” he said bluntly. “I need your solution to this question immediately.”

Jensen fought to control his nerves.

“We will continue to do our best, Your Grace,” he said.

Von Falkenberg turned to Per Larsen. He was glad to see that the scientist appeared to have regained some of his vigor.

“Once we have located the tomb, do you see any reason why it would not be possible to extract the divinity's DNA?”

“Paleogenetics isn't my field, Your Grace,” said Larsen, “but I have studied the current science with respect to ancient DNA and morphological preservation. My colleagues have already replicated the DNA of mummified human samples that were several thousand years old. Professor Jensen has stated that the tomb is in an underground cavern. Assuming it has not been compromised by the sea, between mummified tissue, bone, hair, paleofeces, and teeth, we should have no difficulty accomplishing the task.”

Von Falkenberg could see the sacred burial place in his imagination. It was so close. Once more he silently prayed for the chance to gaze on his personal divinity before entering the halls of Valhalla. He thought about the chosen ones, those who would be imbued with Eriksson's DNA to become progenitors of a new race founded on a bloodline now hidden behind the veil of antiquity. His reverie was interrupted by one of Bjorklund's junior officers who arrived with a printed message. He read it quickly and smiled at Jensen.

“It would appear that we are much closer to locating our island,” he said, getting to his feet and walking with Steiger's help toward the compartment door. “Have the Lynx meet me in my stateroom.”

The commando leader arrived after von Falkenberg received another morphine injection.

“You will have the honor of assembling the party to capture the two American archaeologists who have apparently located our objective.”

The Lynx read the printed message.

“Professor Jensen and I will be following behind you to wait at a secure destination,” said the prince. “You are to bring me the archaeologists unharmed, both mentally and physically. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” said the Lynx, remembering the woman who had escaped them on the ice cap. “Unharmed.”

“If necessary, you are to eliminate anyone who stands in the way of the success of your mission. But you must remember that Maine is not Greenland,” added the prince. “You cannot move about with impunity or without fear of exposure.”

“I understand, Your Grace.”

“One of the ship's transport helicopters will deliver you, your men, and two vehicles to a location within a few miles of your destination. From there you are on your own.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“No one is to know you were ever there.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Do not fail me,” said the prince.

“I will not fail, Your Grace,” said the Lynx.

4 December
The
Dorothy B.
North Atlantic Ocean
Off Bailey Island, Maine

God, the North Atlantic was bleak in the winter, thought Macaulay as the boat plunged through a deep trough and rose to meet the next precipitous wave. In the initial run across Merriconeag Sound, the water had been relatively calm, but as soon as they rounded the tip of Bailey Island and headed out into the ocean, they ran straight into six-foot seas.

Behind them, Bailey had long ago disappeared into the mist. Ahead of them was a dense bank of unbroken fog. They hadn't seen another boat during the entire course of the trip.

“It should clear up some when we get closer to the island,” Grubb shouted over the noise of the engines.

They had been at sea for nearly an hour. After they entered the fog bank, Captain Grubb had turned on the boat's Furuno radar system and navigated the boat electronically.

The
Dorothy B.
was not rigged for winter. Even with the protection of the overhanging roof above the wheelhouse, they were exposed to the bitter wind, and it cut through the still-weakened Lexy. She kept her gloved hands gripped around the warm exhaust funnel from the engine compartment as she stared forward into the thick haze.

Her mind was still focused on Barnaby, and she hoped he was resting comfortably back at the cottage. They would need to get him to a doctor at some point, with luck after they had found the tomb.

A few minutes later, the shoreline of the island began to appear out of the gloom. Although it was still only late afternoon, light was already failing as Grubb began steering the
Dorothy B.
toward a pebbly beach on the island's western shore.

“Please take us all the way around,” said Lexy.

“I thought you needed to go ashore to find the prize,” he came back.

“I'll let you know if and where I want to land,” she said, looking down at the leaping wave crests.

First she wanted to get a feel for its entirety, particularly the eastern side, where Eriksson and his men would presumably have been driven ashore. Grubb turned north, staying about twenty-five yards out from the shoreline.

Lexy used a handkerchief to wipe the mist off her binoculars and began to survey the unfolding landscape. The western edge of the island was low to the sea, mostly rock ledge crowned by patches of green spruce trees. Along the northern edge, the rocky escarpment grew higher as if the island itself had long ago erected its own defensive barrier against the worst of the North Atlantic storms.

Through the binoculars, she observed a line of black-backed gulls, quietly perched like sentinels above the sharp clefts. Along the steep-faced wall of rock, the sea seemed to sigh, like some great hibernating beast.

The
Dorothy B.
began to pitch more violently as they ran down along the eastern edge. Another line of mature spruce trees crowned the striations of ancient rock formations. Beyond the shoreline, she could see what looked like a small grove of gnarly fruit trees and what might have been traces of a settlement.

“What are you looking for?” asked Macaulay when they were about halfway around.

“I don't know,” said Lexy.

In truth she was waiting for that familiar subliminal signal from somewhere within, the intuitive recognition of something in the landscape that would comport with what she had imagined after deciphering the rune markings, the moment when her nerve endings would come alive with excitement.

Macaulay watched as a lone seagull began to follow the boat, flying in their wake about fifteen feet above them. The bird was obviously hoping for a handout. They swung around past the southern tip and began closing in on the pebbly beach where Grubb had started the run.

Lexy put down her binoculars.

“There is no point in landing,” she said to Grubb. “Let's go back.”

“I still get my money, right?” he said.

“Of course,” she answered.

The Norsemen had never been there. It wasn't the place. She was sure of it. She would have felt it inside.

“I'm going to lie down in the cabin,” she said, heading below.

“So what's with her?” asked Grubb as he turned the
Dorothy B
. to the southwest and headed back to South Harpswell. “Sore loser?”

Macaulay just shook his head and stared forward.

*   *   *

Barnaby sat asleep in Mike Grubb's easy chair in the growing darkness of the cottage. He was sailing in a Viking longship through a greenish yellow fog. The smell around him was dank and repulsive, reeking of corruption. Over the side of the ship, men were floating on a sea of blood, the corpses of men long drowned. Below the dense surface lay something horrible, unutterable, rising steadily toward him.

A voice intruded on the feverish dream.

“Where are the others?” asked the Lynx.

Barnaby awoke and took in the coarse-grained blond hair and piercing blue eyes.

“It is useless to lie to me, Herr Finchem,” he said. “I know they were here with you.”

He was just as Lexy had described him, the cool, merciless commando leader who had wiped out Hancock's expedition team in Greenland. He was no longer dressed in the one-piece thermal winter suit she had described with the Mjolnir crest emblazoned over the breast. He now looked like a model from an L.L. Bean catalogue. Only the automatic in his belt and the submachine gun in his right hand confirmed his lethality.

Barnaby glanced out the window into the fading light and saw two more armed men in the glow of the dock lamps. One was entering the small fish house that housed Captain Grubb's gear, while the second disappeared down a ladder at the end of the dock.

“They've gone on,” said Barnaby.

“And left you here?”

He nodded.

“We will wait for them to return,” said the Lynx.

The fire had gone out in the woodstove, and it was very cold in the room. Barnaby wrapped the blanket tighter around his shoulders as the blond man went to the windows, staring out at the water.

Barnaby checked his pulse. In spite of all the hard mileage he had subjected his heart to for almost seventy years, the beat was steady and reassuring, and he felt no residual pain or discomfort from the most recent incident. Good to go, he decided, whatever comes.

Barnaby's ears pricked up at the distant sound of an engine. At first he thought it might be a car, but it was coming from beyond the window, somewhere out at sea. The sound grew increasingly louder.

It was almost certainly Captain Grubb's boat returning from the island, and if they weren't warned, they would all fall into the same net. Barnaby had little doubt what would happen to them once their usefulness in finding the tomb was ended.

The Lynx remained at the window, gazing out to sea. He had deployed his men at every edge of the property with two waiting at the dock. He slid a shell into the chamber of the Czech-made Skorpion Evo III submachine gun.

Barnaby surveyed the bare living room for some means to warn them, taking in the sagging Christmas tree, the array of empty beer cans, two overstuffed trash baskets, and several fishing rods leaning against the wall. He was wondering how he might employ the fishing rods as a weapon, when his eyes landed on the light switches above Grubb's chair. He had used one of them to turn the dock lights on.

Barnaby could hear the boat engine begin to slow down as it approached the dock from the misty sea. He threw off the blanket and noisily attempted to get out of the sprung chair.

“What are you doing?” demanded the Lynx, training the automatic on him.

“Water,” said Barnaby, seemingly choking as he held up the pill bottle. “My heart.”

“Stay in your chair or I'll kill you,” he said, stepping quickly through the open door into the kitchen.

Barnaby could hear the sink running as he reached over and pulled the switch, throwing the dock area into darkness. The Lynx was back a moment later, handing him the water glass. It took him only a few seconds to notice that the dock lights were out.

“What have you done, you miserable old swine?” he demanded, knocking the water glass out of Barnaby's hand and jamming the barrel of his automatic into his ear.

*   *   *

“I don't like it,” said Mike Grubb from the steering console of the
Dorothy B
.

“What is it?” asked Macaulay.

“Someone just turned off my dock lights—probably that English circus freak.”

“It could be an outage,” said Macaulay.

“There are still lights up at my house,” said Grubb. “I want to know what's going on.”

“Stop your engines,” demanded Macaulay.

He had to assume the worst. Somehow they had tracked them all the way from Boston to Maine. Barnaby was either dead or their prisoner. Either way, he and Lexy had to try to escape.

“I'm heading on in,” said Grubb. “You pay me what you owe me and we'll call it even.”

“I said stop the engines,” repeated Macaulay.

“Fuck you,” said Grubb, continuing to steer toward the darkened dock.

Macaulay pulled out the silenced semiautomatic pistol and leveled it at him.

Grubb hauled back on the two power throttles, and the boat slowed to a crawl.

“I never seen a reality show like this one,” said Grubb.

“I want you to drop us off farther up the coast,” said Macaulay. “After that you're free to go where you want. Now turn it around.”

Grubb swung the bow around.

“Open it up,” demanded Macaulay, and the captain obliged.