The Charlemagne Pursuit Read Online Free PDF

acoustical signals had been heard, but the sounds explained little and too few were listening in that part of the world to matter.
    Dammit.
    He’d served in the navy, joined voluntarily, took an oath, and upheld it.
    They hadn’t.
    Instead, when a submarine sank somewhere in the Antarctic, no flotilla of ships had combed the area, probing the depths with sonar. No reams of testimony, charts, drawings, letters, photographs, or operational directives were accumulated as to cause. Just one lousy ship, three days of inquiry, and four pages of a nothing report.
    Bells clanged in the distance.
    He wanted to ram his fist through the wall. But what good would that do?
    Instead he reached for his cell phone.

 
    SIX
    C APTAIN S TERLING W ILKERSON , US N AVY, 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