'I'm not sure that would make Cotton, or those families, feel better.'
'Study the past, if you would divine the future,' Davis said. 'Confucius. Good advice.' He paused. 'For us, and for Cotton.'
'Yes, it is,' Daniels said. 'I hope this is over.'
Davis nodded. 'For me, it is.'
McCoy agreed. 'Nothing would be served by hashing this out in public. Ramsey's gone. Smith's gone. Kane's gone. It's over.'
Daniels stood, stepped to his desk, and grabbed a journal. 'This came from Ramsey's house, too. It's the logbook from NR-1A. The one Herbert Rowland told you about. The asshole kept it all these years.' The president handed it to her. 'I thought Cotton might like it.'
'I'll get it to him,' she said, 'once he calms down.'
'Check out the last entry.'
She opened to the final page and read what Forrest Malone had written. Ice on his finger, ice in his head, ice in his glassy stare.
'From The Ballad of Blasphemous Bill,' the president explained. 'Robert Service. Early twentieth century. He wrote about the Yukon. Cotton's daddy was obviously a fan.'
Malone had told her how he'd found the frozen body, ice in his glassy stare.
'Malone's a pro,' Daniels said. 'He knows the rules and his father knew them, too. It's tough for us to judge folks from forty years ago by today's standards. He needs to get over it.'
'Easier said than done,' she made clear.
'Millicent's family needs to be told,' Davis said. 'They deserve the truth.'
'I agree,' Daniels said. 'I assume you want to do that?'
Davis nodded.
Daniels smiled. 'And there was one bright spot through all this.' The president pointed at Stephanie. 'You didn't get fired.'
She grinned. 'For which I'm eternally grateful.'
'I owe you an apology,' Davis said to McCoy. 'I misread you. I haven't been a good co-worker. I thought you were an idiot.'
'You always so honest?' McCoy asked.
'You didn't have to do what you did. You put your ass on the line for something that didn't really involve you.'
'I wouldn't say that. Ramsey was a threat to national security. That's in our job description. And he killed Millicent Senn.'
'Thank you.'
McCoy gave Davis a nod of gratitude.
'Now that's what I like to see,' Daniels said. 'Everybody getting along. See, a lot of good can come from wrestling rattlesnakes.'
The tension in the room abated.
Daniels shifted in his chair. 'With that out of the way, unfortunately we have a new problem-one that also involves Cotton Malone, whether he likes it or not.'
MALONE SWITCHED OFF THE GROUND-FLOOR LIGHTS AND CLIMBED to his fourth-floor apartment. The shop had been busy today. Three days before Christmas and books seemed to be on Copenhagen's gift list. He employed three people who kept the store open while he was gone, for which he was grateful. So much that he'd made sure each of them received a generous holiday bonus.
He was still conflicted about his father.
They'd buried him where his mother's family lay. Stephanie had come. Pam, his ex-wife, was there. Gary had been emotional, seeing his grandfather for the first time lying in the casket. Thanks to the deep freeze and a skillful mortician, Forrest Malone lay as if he'd died only a few days before.
He'd told the navy to go to hell when they suggested a military ceremony with honors. Too late for that. Didn't matter that no one there had participated in the inexplicable decision not to search for NR-1A. He'd had enough of orders and duty and responsibility. What had happened to decency, righteousness, and honor? Those words seemed always forgotten when they really counted. Like when eleven men disappeared in the Antarctic and no one gave a damn.
He made it to the top floor and switched on a few lamps. He was tired. The past couple of weeks had taken a toll, capped off by watching his mother burst into tears as the coffin was lowered into the ground. They'd all lingered after and watched as workers replaced the dirt and erected a tombstone.
'You did a wonderful thing,' his mother had said to him. 'You brought him home. He would have been so proud of you, Cotton. So very proud.'
And those words had made him cry.
Finally.
He'd almost stayed in Georgia for Christmas but decided to come home. Strange, how he now considered Denmark home.
Yet he did. And that no longer gave him pause.
He walked into the bedroom and lay down on the bed. Nearly eleven PM and he was exhausted. He had to stop this intrigue. He was supposed to be retired. But he was glad he'd called in his favor with Stephanie.
Tomorrow he'd rest. Sunday was always a light day. Stores were closed. Maybe he'd drive north and visit with Henrik Thorvaldsen. He hadn't seen his friend in three weeks. But maybe not. Thorvaldsen would want to know where he'd been, and what had happened, and he wasn't ready to relive it.
For now, he'd sleep.
Malone awoke and cleared the dream from his mind. The bedside clock read 2:34 AM. Lights were still on throughout the apartment. He'd been sleeping for three hours.
But something had roused him. A sound. Part of the dream he'd been having, yet not.
He heard it again.
Three squeaks in quick succession.
His building was seventeenth century, completely remodeled a few months ago after being firebombed. Afterward, the new wooden risers from the second to the third floor always announced themselves in a precise order, like keys on a piano.
Which meant someone was there.
He reached beneath the bed and found the rucksack he always kept ready-a habit from his Magellan Billet days. Inside, his right hand gripped the Beretta automatic, a round already chambered.
He crept from the bedroom.
WRITER'S NOTE
This book was a personal journey for both Malone and myself. While he found his father, I got married. Not necessarily something new for me, but definitely an adventure. As far as traveling, this story led me to Germany (Aachen and Bavaria), the French Pyrenees, and Asheville, North Carolina (the Biltmore Estate). Lots of cold, snowy places.
Now it's time to separate speculation from reality.
The super-secret NR-1 submarine (prologue) is real, as are its history and its exploits. NR-1 continues to this day, after almost forty years, to serve our nation. NR-1A is my concoction. There are precious few written accounts of NR-1, but the one I drew upon is Dark Waters, by Lee Vyborny and Don Davis, which is a rare firsthand observation of what it was like to be aboard. The court of inquiry report on the sinking of NR-1A (chapter 5) is modeled on actual investigative reports regarding the sinking of Thresher and Scorpion.
The Zugspitze and Garmisch are faithfully described (chapter 1), as is the Posthotel. Holiday time in Bavaria is wonderful, and the Christmas markets detailed in chapters 13, 33, and 37 are, without question, part of the attraction. Ettal Abbey (chapter 7) is accurately described, save for the rooms beneath.
