The Charlemagne Pursuit (Cotton Malone 4)

STEPHANIE WATCHED AS DAVIS' RIGHT HAND EASED INTO MCCOY'S coat pocket. Charlie Smith was still positioned at the window, holding the HK53. She had no doubt he planned to kill them, and she was equally concerned that there was nobody here to help them. Their backup was bleeding on the front porch.

Davis stopped.

Smith's head whipped their way, satisfied all was well, then he stared back out the window.

Davis withdrew his hand, holding a 9mm automatic.

She hoped to heaven he knew how to use it.

The hand with the gun dropped to McCoy's side and Davis used her body to block Smith's view. She could see that Edwin realized that their choices were limited. He'd have to shoot Charlie Smith. But thinking about that act and doing it were two entirely different things. A few months ago she'd killed for the first time. Luckily there hadn't been a nanosecond to consider the act-she'd simply been forced to fire in an instant. Davis was not to be afforded such a luxury. He was thinking, surely wanting to do it, but at the same time not wanting to. Killing was serious business. No matter the reason or the circumstances.

But a cold excitement seemed to steady Davis' nerves.

His eyes were watching Charlie Smith, his face loose and expressionless. What was about to provide him the courage to kill a man? Survival? Possibly. Millicent? Surely.

Smith started to turn, his arms swinging the rifle barrel their way.

Davis raised his arm and fired.

The bullet tore into Smith's thin chest, staggering him back toward the wall. One hand left the rifle as he tried to steady himself with an outstretched arm. Davis kept the gun pointed, stood, and fired four more times, the bullets tearing a path through Charlie Smith. Davis kept shooting-each round like an explosion in her ears-until the magazine emptied.

Smith's body contorted, his spine arching and twisting involuntarily. Finally, his legs buckled and he toppled forward, smacking the flooring, his lifeless body rolling onto his spine, his eyes wide open.

NINETY-THREE

The underwater electrical fire destroyed our batteries. The reactor had already failed. Luckily the fire burned slow and radar was able to locate a break in the ice and we managed to surface just before the air became toxic. All hands quickly abandoned the boat and we were amazed to find a cavern with polished walls and writing, similar to the writing we'd observed on stone blocks lying on the seafloor. Oberhauser located a stairway and bronze doors, barred from our side, which, when opened, led into an amazing city. He explored for several hours, trying to locate an exit, while we determined the extent of damage. We tried repeatedly to restart the reactor, violating every safety protocol, but nothing worked. We carried only three sets of cold-weather gear and there were eleven of us. The cold was numbing, relentless, unbearable. We burned what little paper and refuse we had on board, but it wasn't much and provided only a few hours of relief. Nothing inside the city was flammable. Everything was stone and metal, the houses and buildings empty. The inhabitants seemed to have taken all of their belongings with them. Three other exits were located but they were barred from the outside. We possessed no equipment to force the bronze doors open. After only twelve hours we realized that the situation was desperate. There was no way out of the cocoon. We activated the emergency transponder but doubted its signal could reach far considering the rock and ice and the thousands of miles from the nearest ship. Oberhauser seemed the most frustrated. He found what we came in search of, yet would not live to know its extent. We all realized that we were going to die. No one would come search for us since we agreed to that condition prior to leaving. The sub is dead and so are we. Each man decided to die in his own way. Some went off alone, others together. I sat here and kept watch over my boat. I write these words so all will know my crew died bravely. Each man, including Oberhauser, accepted his fate with courage. I wish I could have learned more about the people who built this place. Oberhauser told us they are our forefathers, that our culture came from them. Yesterday I would have said he was insane. Interesting how life deals us cards. I was given command of the navy's most sophisticated undersea sub. My career was set. Captain's bars would have eventually come my way. Now I'll die alone in the cold. There's no pain, only a lack of strength. I am barely able to write. I served my country to the best of my ability. My crew did the same. I felt pride as they each shook my hand and walked off. Now, as the world starts to fade, I find myself thinking of my son. My one regret is that he will never know how I truly felt about him. Telling him what was in my heart always came hard. Though I was gone for long periods of time, not a moment in a day went by that he wasn't at the top of my thoughts. He was everything to me. He's only ten and surely knows nothing of what life holds for him. I regret that I won't be a part of shaping who he becomes. His mother is the finest woman I've ever known and she'll make sure he becomes a man. Please, whoever finds these words, give them to my family. I want them to know I died thinking of them. To my wife, know that I love you. It was never difficult for me to say those words to you. But to my son, let me say now what was so hard for me. I love you, Cotton.

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, re

ality 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.

NINETY-FOUR

WASHINGTON, DC

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 22

4:15 PM

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.