March 800. Charlemagne rides north from Aachen. He's never before ventured to the Gallic Sea at this time of year, when frigid northern winds pound the shore and fishing is poor. But he insists on this journey. Three soldiers and I accompany him, and the journey takes the better part of a day. Once there, camp is set in the usual location, beyond the dunes, which offers little protection from a strong gale. Three days after arriving sails are seen and we think the boats Danes or part of the Saracenic fleet that threatens the empire north and south. But eventually the king shouts in joy and waits on the beach as the ships raise their oars and smaller boats row ashore carrying the Watchers. Uriel, who rules over Tartarus, leads them. With him are Arakiba, who is over the spirits of men, and Raguel who takes vengeance on the world of luminaries, and Danel, who is set over the best part of mankind and chaos, and Saraqael, who is set over spirits. They wear thick mantles, fur trousers, and fur boots. Their fair hair is neatly trimmed and combed. Charlemagne clasps each in a firm embrace. The king asks many questions and Uriel answers. The king is allowed onto the ships, each fashioned of sturdy timbers and caulked with tar, and he marvels at their sturdiness. We are told they are built away from their land, where trees grow in abundance. They love the sea and understand its ways far better than we do. Danel displays for the king maps of places we do not know exist and we are told how their ships find their way. Danel shows us a piece of sharp iron, resting on a sliver of wood, floating in a shell of water, that points the way over the sea. The king wants to know how that could be and Danel explains that the metal is attracted to one particular direction and he motioned north. No matter how the shell is turned the iron point always finds that direction. They visit for three days and Uriel and the king talk at length. I strike a friendship with Arakiba, who acts as counselor for Uriel, as I do for the king. Arakiba tells me of his land, where fire and ice live together, and I tell him that I would like to see that place.
'The Watchers are what Einhard called the people from Civilization One,' she said. 'Holy Ones is another term he uses. Both he and Charlemagne thought them from heaven.'
'Who says they were anything other than a culture we already know exists?'
'Do you know of any society that used an alphabet or language like the one you saw in Dorothea's book?'
'That isn't conclusive proof.'
'Was there an oceangoing society in the ninth century? Only the Vikings. But these weren't Vikings.'
'You don't know who they were.'
'No, I don't. But I do know that Charlemagne ordered the book Dorothea showed you buried with him. It was apparently important enough that he wanted it kept from everyone, except emperors. Einhard went to a lot of trouble to hide this book. Suffice it to say that there is more in here that explains why the Nazis really went to Antarctica in 1938, and why our fathers went back in 1971.'
The abbey rose ahead, still illuminated against the limitless night.
'Park over there,' she said, and he wheeled in and stopped.
Still no one following them.
She popped open her door. 'Let me show you what, I'm sure, Dorothea didn't.'
TWENTY-THREE
8:20 PM
RAMSEY LOVED THE NIGHT. HE CAME ALIVE EACH DAY AROUND six PM, his best thoughts and most decisive actions always formulated after dark. Sleep was necessary, though usually no more than four to five hours-just enough to rest his brain, but not enough to waste time. Nighttime also provided privacy, since it was much easier to know if someone was interested in your business at two in the morning as opposed to two in the afternoon. That was why he only met with Diane McCoy at night.
He lived in a modest Georgetown town house that he rented from a longtime friend who liked having a four-star admiral as a tenant. He electronically swept the two floors for monitoring devices at least once a day-and especially before Diane paid a visit.
He'd been fortunate that Daniels had selected her as national security adviser. She was certainly qualified, with degrees in international relations and global economics, and politically connected with both the left and right. She'd come from State as part of the shakeup last year when Larry Daley's career abruptly ended. He'd liked Daley-a negotiable soul-but Diane was better. Smart, ambitious, and determined to stick around longer than the three years left on Daniels' last term.
Thankfully, he could offer her that chance.
And she knew it.
'Things are starting,' he said.
They were comfortable in his den, a fire crackling in the brick hearth. Outside, the temperature had dropped to the midtwenties. No snow yet, but it was on the way.
'Since I know little of what those things are,' McCoy said, 'I can only assume they're good.'
He smiled. 'What about on your end? Can you make the appointment happen?'
'Admiral Sylvian isn't gone yet. He's banged up from that motorcycle accident, but is expected to recover.'
'I know David. He's going to be down for months. He won't want his job unattended during that time. He'll resign.' He paused. 'If he doesn't succumb first.'
McCoy smiled. She was a placid blonde with a capable air and eyes that beamed with confidence. He liked that about her. Modest bearing. Simple. Cool. Yet dangerous as hell. She sat, back straight, in the chair and nursed a whiskey soda.
'I almost believe you can make Sylvian's death happen,' she said.
'What if I can?'
'Then you'd be a man worthy of respect.'
He laughed. 'The game we're about to play has no rules and only one objective. To win. So I want to know about Daniels. Will he cooperate?'
'That's going to depend on you. You know he's no fan, but you're also qualified for the job. Assuming, of course, there's a vacancy to fill.'
He caught her suspicion. The initial plan was simple: Eliminate David Sylvian, secure his spot on the Joint Chiefs of Staff, serve three years, then start phase two. But he needed to know, 'Will Daniels follow your advice?'
She sipped more of her drink. 'You don't like not being in control, do you?'
'Who does?'
'Daniels is the president. He can do what he pleases. But I think what he does here depends on Edwin Davis.'
He didn't want to hear that. 'How could he be a factor? He's a deputy adviser.'
'Like me?'
He caught her resentment. 'You know what I mean, Diane. How could Davis be a problem?'
'That's your flaw, Langford. You tend to underestimate your enemy.'
'How is Davis my enemy?'
'I read the report on Blazek. Nobody named Davis died in that sub. He lied to Daniels. There was no older brother killed.'
'Did Daniels know that?'
She shook her head. 'He didn't read the inquiry report. He told me to do it.'
'Can't you control Davis?'
'As you so wisely note, we're on the same level. He has as free access to Daniels as I do, per the president's order. It's the White House, Langford. I don't make the rules.'
'What about the national security adviser? Any help there?'
'He's in Europe and not in the loop on this one.'
