the third lined from floor to ceiling with a rack of shelving upon which stood books. Five rows. One after another. She estimated maybe two hundred.
'They've been here since 1971,' Gross said. 'Before that, I have no idea where they were kept. But it had to be cold since, as you can see, they're in great shape.'
'Where'd they come from?' Davis asked.
Gross shrugged. 'I don't know. But the rocks outside are all from Operation Highjump in 1947 and Windmill in '48. So, it's reasonable to assume that these came from then, too.'
She approached the shelves and studied the volumes. They were small, maybe six by eight inches, wood- bound, held together by tight cords, the pages coarse and thick.
'Can I see one?' she asked Gross.
'I was told to let you do whatever you want.'
Carefully, she removed a frozen sample. Gross was right. It was perfectly preserved. A thermometer near the door indicated a temperature of ten degrees Fahrenheit. She'd read an account once of Amundsen and Scott's dual expeditions to the South Pole-how decades later, when their food stores had been found, the cheese and vegetables were still edible. The biscuits retained their crispiness. Salt, mustard, and spices remained in perfect condition. Even the pages of magazines appeared as the day they were printed. Antarctica was a natural freezer. No rot, rust, fermentation, mold, or disease. No moisture, dust, or insects. Nothing to break down any organic debris.
Like books with wooden covers.
'I read a proposal once,' Davis said. 'Somebody suggested that Antarctica would be the perfect repository for a world library. The climate wouldn't affect a single page. I thought the idea ludicrous.'
'Maybe not.'
She laid the book on the shelf. Embossed into the pale beige cover was an unrecognizable symbol.
Carefully, she examined the stiff pages, each covered with writing from top to bottom. Curlicues, swirls, circles. A strange cursive script-tight and compact. Drawings, too. Plants, people, devices. Every succeeding folio was the same-all in crisp clear brown ink, not a smudge anywhere.
Before Gross had opened the refrigerated compartment he'd shown them the warehouse shelves, which contained a multitude of stone fragments with similar writing etched into them.
'A library of some sort?' Davis asked her.
She shrugged.
'Ma'am,' Gross said.
She turned. The colonel reached up to the top shelf and retrieved a leather-bound journal wrapped with a cloth strap. 'The president said to give this to you. It's Admiral Byrd's private diary.'
She instantly recalled what Herbert Rowland had said about seeing it.
'It's been classified since 1948,' Gross said. 'Here since '71.'
She noticed several strips of paper marking spots.
'The relevant parts are flagged.'
'By who?' Davis asked.
Gross smiled. 'The president said you'd ask that.'
'So what's the answer?'
'I took this to the White House earlier and waited while the president read it. He said to tell you that, contrary to what you and other staffers may think, he learned to read a long time ago.'
Returned to dry valley, Spot 1345. Set up camp. Weather clear. Sky cloudless. Little wind. Located previous German settlement. Magazines, food stores, equipment all indicate 1938 exploration. Wooden shed erected then still standing. Sparsely furnished with table, chairs, stove, radio. Nothing significant at site. Moved fourteen miles east, Spot 1356, another dry valley. Located carved stones at mountain base. Most too large to transport, so we gathered smaller ones. Helicopters called. I examined the stones and made a tracing.
Oberhauser in '38 reported similar finds. These represent confirmation of war archives. Germans clearly here. Physical evidence beyond dispute. • • • Investigated a crevice in mountain at Spot 1578 that opened into a small room carved from rock. Writing and drawings similar to Spot 1356 found on walls. People, boats, animals, carts, the sun, representations of sky, planets, moon. Photographs taken. A personal observation: Oberhauser came in '38 in search of lost Aryans. Clearly, some sort of civilization once existed here. Physical images of the people are of a tall, thick-haired, muscular race with Caucasian features. Woman are full-breasted with long hair. I was disturbed looking at them. Who were they? Before today I thought Oberhauser's theories on Aryans ridiculous. Now I do not know. • • • Arrived Spot 1590. Shown another chamber. Small. More writing on walls. Few images. 212 wood-bound volumes found inside, stacked on stone table. Photographs taken. Same unknown writing from the stones inside the books. Time short. Operation ends in eighteen days. Summer season fading. Ships must depart before ice packs return. Ordered books crated and ferried to ship.
Stephanie glanced up from Byrd's diary. 'This is amazing. Look what they found-yet they did nothing with it.'
'A sign of their times,' Davis quietly said. 'They were too busy worrying about Stalin and dealing with a destroyed Europe. Lost civilizations mattered little, especially one that might have a German connection. Byrd was clearly concerned about that.' Davis looked at Gross. 'Photographs are mentioned. Can we get those?'
'The president tried. They're gone. In fact, everything is gone except for that diary.'
'And these books and rocks,' she added.
Davis thumbed through the diary, reading other passages out loud. 'Byrd visited a lot of sites. A shame we don't have a map. They're only identified by numbers, no coordinates.'
She wished the same thing, especially for Malone's sake. But there was one salvation. The translation program Malone mentioned. What Hermann Oberhauser found in France. She stepped from the freezer, found her cell phone, and dialed Atlanta. When her assistant told her an e-mail had been sent by Malone she smiled and clicked off.
'I need one of these books,' she said to Gross.
'They have to be kept frozen. It's how they're preserved.'
'Then I want to be allowed back in here. I have a laptop, but I'll need Internet access.'
'The president said whatever you want.'
'You have something?' Davis asked.
'I think I do.'
SEVENTY-EIGHT
6:30 PM
RAMSEY REENTERED HIS OFFICE, FINISHED WITH THE LAST INTERVIEW of the day. Diane McCoy sat inside, where he'd told Hovey to have her wait. He closed the door. 'Okay, what's so important?'
She'd been electronically swept and was clean of listening devices. He knew his office was secure, so he sat with confidence.
'I want more,' she told him.
She wore a gun-check wool tweed suit in calming shades of brown and camel, with a black turtleneck underneath. A tad casual and expensive looking for a White House staffer, but stylish. Her coat lay across another of the chairs.
'More of what?' he asked.
'There's a man who goes by the name Charles C. Smith Jr. He works for you, and has for a long time. You pay him well, albeit through a variety of false names and numbered accounts. He's your killer, the one who took care of Admiral Sylvian and a whole group of others.'
He was amazed, but stayed composed. 'Any proof?'
She laughed. 'Like I'm going to tell you. Just suffice it to say I know, and that's what matters.' She grinned. 'You may well be the first person in US military history to have actually murdered his way to the top. Damn, Langford, you truly are an ambitious SOB.'
