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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.
THIRTY
ATLANTA, 7:22 AM
STEPHANIE ROUSED EDWIN DAVIS FROM A SOUND SLEEP. HE CAME up with a start, at first disoriented until he realized where he lay.
"You snore," she said.
Even through a closed door and down the hall, she'd heard him during the night.
"So I'm told. I do that when I'm really tired."
"And who tells you that?"
He swiped the sleep from his eyes. He lay on the bed fully dressed, his cell phone beside him. They'd arrived back in Atlanta a little before midnight on the last flight from Jacksonville. He'd suggested a hotel, but she'd insisted on her guest room.
"I'm not a monk," he declared.
She knew little of his private life. Unmarried, that much she did know. But had he ever been? Any children? Now, though, was not the time to pry. "You need a shave."
He rubbed his chin. "So good of you to point that out."
She headed for the door. "There's towels and some razors-girlie ones, I'm afraid-in the hall bath."
She'd already showered and dressed, ready for whatever the day might hold.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, standing. "You run a tight ship."
She left him and entered the kitchen, switching on the counter television. Rarely did she eat much breakfast beyond a muffin or some wheat flakes, and she detested coffee. Green tea usually was her choice of a hot beverage. She needed to check with the office. Having a nearly nonexistent staff helped with security but was hell on delegating.
"-it's going to be interesting," a CNN reporter was saying. "President Daniels has recently voiced much displeasure with the Joint Chiefs of Staff. In a speech two weeks ago he hinted whether that entire chain of command was even needed."
The screen shifted to Daniels standing before a blue podium.
"They don't command anything," he said in his trademark baritone. "They're advisers. Politicians. Policy repeaters, not makers. Don't get me wrong. I have great respect for these men. It's the institution itself I have problems with. There's no question that the talents of the officers now on the Joint Chiefs could be better utilized in other capacities."
Back to the reporter, a perky brunette. "All of which makes you wonder if, or how, he'll fill the vacancy caused by the untimely death of Admiral David Sylvian."
Davis walked into the kitchen, his gaze locked on the television.
She noticed his interest. "What is it?"
He stood silent, sullen, preoccupied. Finally, he said, "Sylvian is the navy's man on the Joint Chiefs."
She didn't understand. She'd read about the motorcycle accident and Sylvian's injuries. "It's unfortunate he died, Edwin, but what's the matter?"
He reached into his pocket and found his phone. A few punches of the keys and he said, "I need to know how Admiral Sylvian died. Exact cause, and fast."
He ended the call.
"Are you going to explain?" she asked.
"Stephanie, there's more to Langford Ramsey. About six months ago the president received a letter from the widow of a navy lieutenant-"
The phone gave a short clicking sound. Davis studied the screen and answered. He listened a few moments then ended the call.
"That lieutenant worked in the navy's general accounting office. He'd noticed irregularities. Several million dollars channeled to bank after bank, then the money simply disappeared. The accounts were all attached to naval intelligence, director's office."
"The intelligence business runs on covert money," she said. "I have several blind accounts that I use for outside payments, contract help, that kind of thing."
"That lieutenant died two days before he was scheduled to brief his superiors. His widow knew some of what he'd learned, and distrusted everyone in the military. She wrote the president with a personal plea, and the letter was directed to me."
"And when you saw Office of Naval Intelligence, your radar went to full alert. So what did you find when you looked into those accounts?"
"They couldn't be found."
She'd experienced a similar frustration. Banks in various parts of the world were infamous for erasing accounts-provided, of course, enough fees were paid by the account holder. "So what's got you riled up now?"
"That lieutenant dropped dead in his house, watching television. His wife went to the grocery store and, when she came home, he was dead."
"It happens, Edwin."
"His blood pressure bottomed out. He had a heart murmur for which he'd been treated and, you're right, things like that happen. The autopsy found nothing. With his history and no evidence of foul play, the cause of death seemed easy."
She waited.
"I was just told that Admiral David Sylvian died from low blood pressure."
His expression mingled disgust, anger, and frustration.
"Too much of a coincidence for you?" she asked.
He nodded. "You and I know Ramsey controlled the accounts that that lieutenant found. And now there's a vacancy on the Joint Chiefs of Staff?"
"You're reaching, Edwin."
"Am I?" Disdain laced his tone. "My office said they were just about to contact me. Last night, before I dozed off, I ordered two Secret Service agents dispatched to Jacksonville. I wanted them to keep an eye on Zachary Alexander. They arrived an hour ago. His house burned to the ground last night, with him inside."
She was shocked.
"Indications are an electrical short from wires beneath the house."
She told herself never to play poker with Edwin Davis. He'd received both bits of news with a nothing face. "We have to find those other two lieutenants who were in the Antarctic with Ramsey."
"Nick Sayers is dead," he said. "Years ago. Herbert Rowland is still alive. He lives outside Charlotte. I had that checked last night, too."
Secret Service? White House staff cooperating? "You're full of crap, Edwin. You're not in this alone. You're on a mission."
His eyes flickered. "That all depends. If it works, then I'm okay. If I fail, then I'm going down."
"You staked your career on this?"
"I owe it to Millicent."
"Why am I here?"
"Like I told you, Scot Harvath said no. But he told me nobody flies solo
better than you."
That rationalization was not necessarily comforting. But what the hell. The line had already been crossed.
"Let's head to Charlotte."
THIRTY-ONE
AACHEN, GERMANY
11:00 AM
MALONE FELT THE TRAIN SLOW AS THEY ENTERED THE OUTSKIRTS of Aachen. Even though his worries from last night had receded into better proportion, he wondered what was he doing here. Christl Falk sat beside him, but the ride north from Garmisch had taken about three hours and they'd said little.
His clothes and toiletries from the Posthotel had been waiting for him when he awoke at Reichshoffen. A note had explained that Ulrich Henn had retrieved them during the night. He'd slept on sheets that smelled of clover then showered, shaved, and changed. Of course, he'd only brought a couple of shirts and pants from Denmark, planning to be gone no more than a day, two at the most. Now he wasn't so sure.
Isabel had been waiting for him downstairs, and he'd informed the Oberhauser matriarch that he'd decided to help. What choice did he have? He wanted to know about his father, and he wanted to know who was trying to kill him. Walking away would lead to nothing. And the old woman had made one point clear. They knew things he didn't.
"Twelve hundred years ago," Christl said, "this was the center of the secular world. The capital of the newly conceived Northern Empire. What two hundred years later we called the Holy Roman Empire."
He smiled. "Which was not holy, nor Roman, nor an empire."
She nodded. "True. But Charlemagne was quite the progressive. A man of immense energy, he founded universities, generated legal principles that eventually made their way into the common law, organized the government, and started a nationalism that inspired the creation of Europe. I've studied him for years. He seemed to make all the right decisions. He ruled for forty-seven years and lived to be seventy-four at a time when kings barely lasted five years in power and were dead at thirty."
