"The Charlemagne Pursuit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Berry Steve)

SIX

CAPTAIN STERLING WILKERSON, US NAVY, STARED PAST THE frosty plate-glass window at the Posthotel. He was discreetly positioned across the street, inside a busy cDonald's. People trudged back and forth outside, bundled against the cold and a steady snow.

Garmisch was an entanglement of congested strasses and pedestrian-only quarters. The whole place seemed like one of those toy towns at FAO Schwarz, with painted Alpine cottages nestled deep in cotton batting, sprinkled thick with plastic flakes. Tourists surely came for the ambience and the nearby snowy slopes. He'd come for Cotton Malone and had watched earlier as the ex-Magellan Billet agent, now a Copenhagen bookseller, killed a man then leaped from a cable car, eventually making his way to ground level and fleeing in his rental car. Wilkerson had followed, and when Malone headed straight for the Posthotel and disappeared inside, he'd assumed a position across the street, enjoying a beer while he waited.

He knew all about Cotton Malone.

Georgia native. Forty-eight years old. Former naval officer. Georgetown law school graduate. Judge Advocate General's Corps. Justice Department agent. Two years ago Malone had been involved in a shoot-out in Mexico City, where he'd received his fourth wound in the line of duty and apparently reached his limit, opting for an early retirement, which the president personally granted. He'd then resigned his naval commission and moved to Copenhagen, opening an old-book shop.

All that, Wilkerson could understand.

Two things puzzled him.

First, the name Cotton. The file noted that Malone's legal name was Harold Earl. Nowhere was the unusual nickname explained.

And second, how important was Malone's father? Or, more accurately, his father's memory? The man had died thirty-eight years ago.

Did that still matter?

Apparently so, since Malone had killed to protect what Stephanie Nelle had sent.

He sipped his beer.

A breeze swirled past outside and enhanced the dance of snowflakes. A colorful sleigh appeared, drawn by two prancing steeds, its riders tucked beneath plaid blankets, the driver snatching at the bridles.

He understood a man like Cotton Malone.

He was a lot like him.

Thirty-one years he'd served the navy. Few rose to the rank of captain, even fewer beyond to the admiralty. Eleven years he'd been assigned to naval intelligence, the past six overseas, rising to Berlin bureau chief. His service record was replete with successful tours at tough assignments. True, he'd never leaped from a cable car a thousand feet in the air, but he'd faced danger.

He checked his watch. 4:20 PM.

Life was good.

The divorce to wife number two last year had not been costly. She'd actually left with little fanfare. He then lost twenty pounds and added some auburn to his blond hair, which made him appear a decade short of fifty-three. His eyes were more alive thanks to a French plastic surgeon who'd tightened the folds. Another specialist eliminated the need for glasses, while a nutritionist friend taught him how to maintain greater stamina through a vegetarian diet. His strong nose, taut cheeks, and sharp brow would all be assets when he finally rose to flag rank.

Admiral.

That was the goal.

Twice he'd been passed over. Usually that was all the chances the navy offered. But Langford Ramsey had promised a third.

His cell phone vibrated.

"By now Malone's read that file," the voice said when he answered.

"Every word, I'm sure."

"Move him along."

"Men like this can't be rushed," he said.

"But they can be directed."

He had to say, "It's waited twelve hundred years to be found."

"So let's not let it wait any longer."

STEPHANIE SAT AT HER DESK AND FINISHED READING THE COURT of inquiry report. "This whole thing is false?"

Davis nodded. "That sub was nowhere near the North Atlantic."

"What was the point?"

"Rickover built two NR boats. They were his babies. He allocated a fortune to them during the height of the Cold War, and no one gave a second thought to spending two hundred million dollars to one-up the Soviets. But he cut corners. Safety was not the primary concern, results were what mattered. Hell, hardly anybody knew the subs existed. But the sinking of NR-1A raised problems on many levels. The sub itself. The mission. Lots of embarrassing questions. So the navy hid behind national security and concocted a cover story."

"They sent only one ship to look for survivors?"

He nodded. "I agree with you, Stephanie. Malone is cleared to read that. The question is, should he?"

Her answer was never in doubt. "Absolutely." She recalled her own pain at the unresolved questions over her husband's suicide and her son's death. Malone had helped resolve both of those agonies, which was the precise reason why she'd owed him.

Her desk phone buzzed, and one of the staff told her that Cotton Malone was on the line demanding to speak with her.

She and Davis exchanged puzzled glances.

"Don't look at me," Davis said. "I didn't give him that file."

She answered with the handset. Davis pointed to a speaker box. She didn't like it, but she activated the unit so he could hear.

"Stephanie, let me just say that, at the moment, I'm not in the mood for bullshit."

"And hello to you, too."

"Did you read that file before you sent it to me?"

"No." Which was the truth.

"We've been friends a long time. I appreciate you doing this. But I need something else and I don't need any questions asked."

"I thought we were even," she tried.

"Put this on my bill."

She already knew what he wanted.

"A naval ship," he said, "Holden. In November 1971 it was dispatched to the Antarctic. I want to know if its captain is still alive-a man named Zachary Alexander. If so, where is he? If he's not breathing, are any of his officers still around?"

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me why."

"Have you now read the file?" he asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"I can hear it in your voice. So you know why I want to know."

"I was told a short while ago about the Zugspitze. That's when I decided to read the file."

"Did you have people there? On the ground?"

"Not mine."

"If you read that report, then you know the SOBs lied. They left that sub out there. My father and those other ten men could have been sitting on the bottom waiting for people to save them. People who never came. I want to know why the navy did that."

He was clearly angry. So was she.

"I want to talk to one or more of those officers from Holden," he said. "Find them for me."

"You coming here?"

"As soon as you find them."

Davis nodded, signaling his assent.

"All right. I'll locate them."

She was tiring of this charade. Edwin Davis was here for a reason. Malone had obviously been played. She had been, too, for that matter.

"Another thing," he said, "since you know about the cable car. The woman who was there-I popped her hard in the head, but I need to find her. Did they take her into custody? Let her go? What?"

Davis mouthed, You'll get back to him.

Enough. Malone was her friend. He'd stood by her when she really needed it, so it was time to tell him what was happening-Edwin Davis be damned.

"Never mind," Malone suddenly said.

"What do you mean?"

"I just found her."