The Charlemagne Pursuit

4:30 AM

RAMSEY SLIPPED ON HIS BATHROBE. TIME FOR ANOTHER DAY. IN fact, this could well become the most important day of his life, the first step on a life-defining journey.

He'd dreamed of Millicent and Edwin Davis and NR-1A. A strange combination that wove themselves together in unsettling images. But he was not going to let any fantasy spoil reality. He'd come a long way-and within a few hours he'd claim the next prize. Diane McCoy had been right. It was doubtful he'd be the president's first choice to succeed David Sylvian. He knew of at least two others Daniels would certainly nominate ahead of him-assuming that the decision would be the White House's alone. Thank goodness free choice was a rarity in Washington politics.

He descended to the first floor and entered his study just as his cell phone rang. He carried the thing constantly. The display indicated an overseas exchange. Good. Since speaking to Wilkerson earlier, he'd been waiting to know if the apparent failure had been reversed.

"Those packages for Christmas you ordered," the voice said. "We're sorry to say they may not arrive in time."

He quelled a renewed anger. "And the reason for the delay?"

"We thought there was inventory in our warehouse, but discovered that none was on hand."

"Your inventory problems are not my concern. I prepaid weeks ago, expecting prompt delivery."

"We're aware of that and plan to make sure delivery occurs on time. We just wanted you to be aware of a slight delay."

"If it requires priority shipping, then incur the cost. It does not matter to me. Just make the deliveries."

"We're tracking the packages now and should be able to verify delivery shortly."

"Make sure you do," he said, and clicked off.

Now he was agitated. What was happening in Germany? Wilkerson still alive? And Malone? Two loose ends he could ill afford. But there was nothing he could do. He had to trust the assets on the ground. They'd performed well before and hopefully would this time.

He switched on the desk lamp.

One of the things that had attracted him to this town house, besides its location, size, and ambience, was a cabinet safe the owner had discreetly installed. Not flawless by any means, but enough protection for files brought home overnight, or the few folders he privately maintained.

He opened the concealed wooden panel and punched in a digital code.

Six files stood upright inside.

He removed the first one on the left.

Charlie Smith was not only an excellent killer, but also gathered information with the zeal of a squirrel locating winter nuts. He seemed to love discovering secrets that people went to great lengths to hide. Smith had spent the past two years collecting facts. Some of it was being used right now, and the rest would be brought into play over the next few days, as needed.

He opened the folder and reacquainted himself with the details.

Amazing how a public persona could be so different from the private person. He wondered how politicos maintained their facades. It had to be difficult. Urges and desires pointed one way-career and image jerked them another.

Senator Aatos Kane was a perfect example.

Fifty-six years old. A fourth-termer from Michigan, married, three children. A career politician since his midtwenties, first at the state level then in the US Senate. Daniels had considered him for vice president when a vacancy came available last year, but Kane had declined, saying that he appreciated the White House's confidence but believed he could serve the president better by staying in the Senate. Michigan had breathed a sigh of relief. Kane was rated by several congressional watchdog groups as one of Congress's most effective purveyors of pork barrel legislation. Twenty-two years on Capitol Hill had taught Aatos Kane all of the right lessons.

And the most important?

All politics were local.

Ramsey smiled. He loved negotiable souls.

Dorothea Lindauer's question still rang in his ears. Is there anything there to find? He hadn't thought about that trip to Antarctic in years.

How many times had they gone ashore?

Four?

The ship's captain-Zachary Alexander-had been an inquisitive sort, but, per orders, Ramsey had kept their mission secret. Only the radio receiver his team brought on board had been tuned to NR-1A's emergency transponder. No signal had ever been heard by monitoring stations in the Southern Hemisphere. Which had made the ultimate cover-up easier. No radiation had been detected. It was thought that a signal and radiation might be more discernible closer to the source. In those days ice had a tendency to wreak havoc with sensitive electronics. So they'd listened and monitored the water for two days as Holden patrolled the Weddell Sea, a place of howling winds, luminous purple clouds, and ghostly halos around a weak sun.

Nothing.

Then they'd taken the equipment ashore.

"What do you have?" he asked Lt. Herbert Rowland.

The man was excited. "Signal bearing two hundred and forty degrees."

He stared out across a dead continent swathed in a mile-thick shroud of ice. Eight degrees below zero and nearly summer. A signal? Here? No way. They were six hundred yards inland from where they'd beached their boat, the terrain as flat and broad as the sea; it was impossible to know if water or earth lay below. Off to the right and ahead, mountains rose like teeth over the glittery white tundra.

"Signal definite at two hundred and forty degrees," Rowland repeated.

"Sayers," he called out to the third member of the team.

The remaining lieutenant was fifty yards ahead, checking for fissures. Perception was a constant problem. White snow, white sky, even the air was white with constant breath clouds. This was a place of mummified emptiness, to which the human eye was little better adjusted than pitch darkness.

"It's the damn sub," Rowland said, his attention still on the receiver.

He could still feel the absolute cold that had enveloped him in that shadowless land where palls of gray-green fog materialized in an instant. They'd been plagued by bad weather, low ceilings, dense clouds, and constant wind. During every Northern Hemisphere winter he'd experienced since, he'd compared its ferocity with the intensity of an ordinary Antarctic day. Four days he'd spent there-four days he'd never forgotten.

You can't imagine, he'd told Dorothea Lindauer in answer to her question.

He stared down into the safe.

Beside the folders lay a journal.

Thirty-eight years ago naval regulations required that commanding officers on all seagoing vessels maintain one.

He slid the book free.