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MALONE HAD READ ENOUGH OF CHRISTL'S TRANSLATION TO KNOW that he must go to Antarctica. If he had to take along four passengers, then so be it. Einhard had obviously experienced something extraordinary, something that had also enthralled Hermann Oberhauser. Unfortunately, the old German had sensed his impending doom and returned the book to where it had sat for twelve hundred years in the hope that his son might make the return journey. Yet Dietz had failed and had taken the crew of NR-1A down with him. If there was a chance in hell of finding that sunken sub, he had to take it.
They'd spoken to Isabel and told her what they'd found.
Christl was completing the translation, polishing her effort, making sure they possessed accurate information.
So he stepped from the inn into a frigid afternoon, and walked toward Ossau's central square, each step like a crisp Styrofoam squeak on the fresh snow. He'd brought his phone and, while he walked, dialed Stephanie's number. She answered on the fourth ring and said, "I've been waiting to hear from you."
"That doesn't sound good."
"Being played for a fool never is." He listened as she told him about the past twelve hours and what had happened at Biltmore Estate. "I watched the man's skull be blown off."
"You tried to tell him not to go, but he wouldn't listen. No trace of the shooter?"
"A lot of woods between us and him. No way to find him. He chose his spot well."
He understood her frustration but noted, "You still have a trail to Ramsey."
"It's more like he has us."
"But you know the connection. He has to make a mistake at some point. And you said Daniels told you that Diane McCoy went to Fort Lee, and Ramsey visited there yesterday. Think, Stephanie. The president didn't tell you that for nothing."
"I thought the same thing."
"I think you know your next move."
"This sucks, Cotton. Scofield is dead because I wasn't thinking."
"Nobody said it's fair. The rules are tough and the consequences tougher. Like you'd tell me. Do your job and don't sweat it, but don't screw up again."
"The student teaching the teacher?"
"Something like that. Now I need a favor. A big one."
STEPHANIE PHONED THE WHITE HOUSE. SHE'D LISTENED TO MALONE'S request and told him to stand by. She agreed. It had to be done. She also agreed that Danny Daniels was plotting.
She'd dialed a private line directly to the chief of staff. When he answered, she explained her need. A few moments later the president came on the line and asked, "Scofield's dead?"
"And it's our fault."
"How's Edwin?"
"Mad as hell. What are you and Diane McCoy doing?"
"Not bad. I thought I hid that one good."
"No, Cotton Malone is the bright one. I was just smart enough to listen to him."
"It's complicated, Stephanie. But let's just say I wasn't as confident in Edwin's approach as I'd like to be and, it seems, I was right."
She couldn't argue. "Cotton needs a favor, and it relates to this."
"Go ahead."
"He's connected Ramsey, NR-1A, Antarctica, and that warehouse at Fort Lee. Those rocks with the writing on them-he found a way to read them."
"I've been hoping that would happen," Daniels said.
"He's e-mailing a translation program. I suspect that's the reason NR-1A went in 1971-to learn more about those rocks. Now Malone needs to go to Antarctica. Halvorsen Base. Immediately. With four passengers."
"Civilians?"
"Afraid so. But they're part of the deal. They have the site location. No them, no location. He'll need air and ground transportation and equipment. He thinks he may be able to solve the NR-1A mystery."
"We owe him this one. Done."
"Back to my question, what are you and Diane McCoy doing?"
"Sorry. Presidential privilege. But I need to know, are you going to Fort Lee?"
"Can we use that private jet that brought the Secret Service here?"
Daniels chuckled. "Yours for the day."
"Then yes, we'll go."
MALONE SAT ON A FROZEN BENCH AND WATCHED KNOTS OF PEOPLE pass by, everyone laughing, full of festivity. What was waiting in Antarctica? Impossible to say. But for some reason he feared it.
He sat alone, his emotions as brittle and cold as the air around him. He barely remembered his father, but there'd never been a day since he was ten years old that he hadn't thought of the man. When he'd joined the navy, he'd met many of his father's contemporaries and quickly learned that Forrest Malone had been a highly respected officer. He'd never felt any pressure to measure up-perhaps because he'd never known the standard-but he'd been told that he was a lot like him. Forthright, determined, loyal. He'd always considered that a compliment, but damn if he didn't want to know the man for himself.
Unfortunately, death intervened.
And he was still angry at the navy for lying.
Stephanie and the court of inquiry report had explained some of the reasons for that deception. The secrecy of NR-1A, the Cold War, the mission's uniqueness, the fact that the crew agreed to no rescue. But none of that was satisfactory. His father died on a foolhardy venture searching for nonsense. Yet the US Navy had sanctioned that folly and a bold cover-up.
Why?
His phone vibrated in his hand.
"The president has okayed everything," Stephanie said when he answered. "There's usually lots of prep and procedures that have to be followed before anyone goes to Antarctica-training, vaccinations, medical exams-but he's ordered them suspended. A helicopter is on its way to you now. He wishes you well."
"I'll send the translation program by e-mail."
"Cotton, what do you hope to find?"
A deep breath calmed his jangled nerves. "I'm not sure. But there's a few of us here who have to make the journey."
"Sometimes ghosts are better left alone."
"I don't recall you believing that a couple of years ago, when the ghosts were yours."
"What you're about to do. It's dangerous, in more ways than one." His face was cast down at the snow, phone to his ear. "I know."
"Careful with this one, Cotton."
"You, too."
SEVENTY-FIVE
FORT LEE, VIRGINIA
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."
