The Charlemagne Pursuit

2:40 PM

STEPHANIE DROVE A RENTAL CAR OBTAINED AT THE RICHMOND airport, where the Secret Service jet had landed after its quick flight from Asheville. Davis sat beside her, his face and ego still bruised. He'd been played twice for an idiot. Once years ago by Ramsey with Millicent, and yesterday by the man who'd skillfully murdered Douglas Scofield. The local police were treating the death as a homicide, solely on information Stephanie and Edwin had provided, though not a trace of an assailant had been found. Both of them realized that the killer was long gone, their task now to determine where. But first they needed to see what all the ruckus was about.

"How do you plan to get into that warehouse?" she asked Davis. "Diane McCoy didn't manage."

"I don't think that's going to be a problem."

She knew what or, more accurately, who that meant.

She approached the base's main gate and stopped at the security point. To the uniformed sentry, she presented their identifications and said, "We have business with the base commander. Classified."

The corporal retreated into his gate station and quickly returned, holding an envelope. "This is for you, ma'am."

She accepted the packet and he waved them through. She handed the envelope to Davis and drove forward as he opened it.

"It's a note," he said. "Says to follow these directions."

Davis navigated and she drove through the base until they entered a compound filled with metal warehouses, lying beside one another like half loaves of bread.

"The one marked 12E," Davis said.

She saw a man waiting for them outside. Dark-skinned, hair jet black, cut short, his features more Arab than European. She parked and they both clambered out.

"Welcome to Fort Lee," the man said. "I'm Colonel William Gross."

He was dressed in jeans, boots, and a lumberjack shirt.

"A bit out of uniform," Davis said.

"I was hunting today. Was called in and told to come as I am and be discreet. I understand you want a look inside."

"And who told you that?" she asked.

"Actually, the president of the United States. Can't say I've ever been called by one before, but I was today."

RAMSEY STARED ACROSS THE CONFERENCE TABLE AT THE WASHINGTON Post reporter. This was the ninth interview he'd granted today and the first in person. The others had all been by telephone, which had become standard operating procedure for a press with tight deadlines. Daniels, true to his word, had announced the appointment four hours ago.

"You have to be thrilled," the woman said. She'd covered the military for several years and had interviewed him before. Not all that bright, but she clearly thought herself so.

"It's a good post in which to end my career with the navy." He laughed. "Let's face it, that's always been the last billet for anyone chosen. Not many places to go higher."

"The White House."

He wondered if she was knowledgeable or simply baiting him. Surely the latter. So he decided to have some fun with it. "True, I could retire out and make a run for the presidency. Seems like a plan."

She smiled. "Twelve military men made it that far."

He held up a hand in surrender. "I assure you, I have no plans for that. None at all."

"Several people I spoke with today mentioned that you'd be an excellent political candidate. Your career has been exemplary. Not a hint of scandal. Your political philosophies are unknown, which means they could be molded however you choose. No party affiliation, which gives you choices. And the American people always love a man in uniform."

Exactly his reasoning. He firmly believed that an opinion poll would reveal an overall approval of him, both as a person and a leader. Though his name was not that well known, his career spoke for itself. He'd dedicated his life to military service, been stationed around the globe, serving in every conceivable trouble spot. He'd received twenty-three commendations. His political friends were numerous. Some he'd cultivated himself, like Winterhawk Dyals and Senator Kane, but others gravitated toward him simply because he represented a high-ranking officer in a sensitive position who could be of help whenever they might need it.

"Tell you what, I'll leave that honor to some other military person. I'm simply looking forward to serving on the Joint Chiefs. Going to be a terrific challenge."

"I've heard Aatos Kane is your champion. Any truth to that?"

This woman was far more informed than he'd assumed. "If the senator spoke for me, then I'm grateful. With confirmation looming, it's always nice to have friends on the Senate floor."

"You think confirmation will be a problem?"

He shrugged. "I don't presume anything. I simply hope the senators think me worthy. If not, I'll be pleased to finish my career right where I am."

"You sound like it doesn't matter whether you get the job or not."

One piece of advice many a nominee had failed to heed was simple and clear. Don't ever appear anxious or entitled.

"That's not what I said, and you know it. What's the problem here?No story beyond the appointment itself, so you're trying to make one?"

She seemed not to enjoy his reprimand, however tacit. "Let's face it, Admiral. Yours was not the name most people would have associated with this appointment. Rose at the Pentagon, Blackwood at NATO-those two would have been naturals. But Ramsey? You came out of nowhere. That fascinates me."

"Perhaps the two you mentioned weren't interested?"

"They were, I checked. But the White House came straight to you, and my sources say it was thanks to Aatos Kane."

"You need to ask Kane that question."

"I did. His office said they'd get back to me with a comment. That was three hours ago."

Time to placate her. "I'm afraid there's nothing sinister here. At least not on my part. Just an old navy man grateful for a few more years to serve."

STEPHANIE FOLLOWED COLONEL GROSS INTO THE WAREHOUSE. He'd gained entrance through a numeric code and digital thumb scanner.

"I personally supervise maintenance of all these warehouses," Gross said. "My coming here will raise no suspicions."

Which, Stephanie thought, was precisely why Daniels had enlisted his aid.

"You understand the secrecy of this visit?" Davis asked.

"My CO explained, as did the president."

They stepped into a small anteroom. The rest of the dimly lit storage facility loomed ahead through a plate-glass window that revealed row after row of metal shelving.

"I'm supposed to give you the history," Gross said. "This building has been on lease to the navy since October 1971."

"That's before NR-1A sailed," Davis said.

"I don't know anything about that," Gross made clear. "But I do know that the navy has maintained this building ever since. It's equipped with a separate refrigerated chamber-" He pointed through the window. "-beyond the last row of shelves, which is still operational."

"What's in it?" she asked.

He hesitated. "I think you need to see that for yourself."

"Is that why we're here?"

He shrugged. "No idea. But Fort Lee has made sure this warehouse stayed in tip-top shape for the past thirty-eight years. I've been on the job for six of those. No one other than Admiral Ramsey himself enters this building, without me by their side. I stay with any cleaning or repair crew at all times. My predecessors did the same. The scanners and electronic locks were installed five years ago. A computer record is maintained of all who enter and is provided daily to the Office of Naval Intelligence, which has direct managerial oversight of the lease. Whatever anyone sees in here is classified, and all personnel understand what that means."

"How many times has Ramsey visited?" Davis asked.

"Only once in the past five years-that the computer record shows. Two days ago. He also entered the refrigerated compartment. It has a separate recorded lock."

She was anxious. "Take us."

RAMSEY SHOWED THE POST REPORTER FROM HIS OFFICE. HOVEY had already told him about three more interviews. Two for television, one for radio, and they would happen downstairs, in a briefing room, where crews were setting up. He was beginning to like this. Much different from living in the shadows. He was going to make a great Joint Chief of Staff and, if all went according to plan, an even better vice president.

He'd never understood why the number two constitutional office couldn't be more active. Dick Cheney had demonstrated the possibilities, becoming a quiet molder of policy without the attention the presidency continually attracted. As vice president, he could involve himself in what he wanted, when he wanted. And just as quickly un-involve himself, since-as John Nance Garner, FDR's first vice president, had so wisely noted-most believed the office wasn't worth a "warm bucket of spit," though legend says reporters changed the spelling of the last word for print.

He smiled.

Vice President Langford Ramsey.

He liked that.

His cell phone alerted him with a barely audible chime. He lifted the unit from his desk and noted the caller. Diane McCoy.

"I need to speak with you," she said.

"I don't think so."

"No tricks, Langford. You name the place."

"I haven't the time."

"Make it, or there won't be any appointment."

"Why do you persist in threatening me?"

"I'll come to your office. Surely you feel safe there."

He did, but wondered, "What's this about?"

"A man named Charles C. Smith Jr. It's an alias, but that's what you call him."

He'd never heard anyone speak that name before. Hovey handled all payments, but they were issued to another name in a foreign bank, protected behind the National Security Act.

Yet Diane McCoy knew.

He checked the clock on his desk. 4:05 PM.

"Okay, come on over."