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.
Charlemagne is, of course, pivotal to the story. His historical context, as presented, is accurate (chapter 36), as is his signature (chapter 10). He remains one of the world's most enigmatic figures and still carries the title Father of Europe. The authenticity of the story of Otto III entering Charlemagne's grave in 1000 CE is a matter of debate. The tale featured in chapter 10 has been repeated many times-though, of course, the strange book Otto finds is my addition. There are equally strong stories that say Charlemagne was buried lying down, inside a marble sarcophagus (chapter 34). No one knows for sure.
Einhard's Life of Charlemagne continues to be regarded as one of the great works from that period. Einhard himself was a learned man, and his involvement with Charlemagne, as described, is accurate. Only their connection to the Holy Ones is my invention. Einhard's accounts quoted in chapters 21 and 22 are loosely based on portions of the Book of Enoch-an ancient, enigmatic text.
Operations Highjump and Windmill happened as described (chapter 11). Both were extensive military operations. Much about them remained classified for decades and is still shrouded in mystery. Admiral Richard Byrd was co-leader of Highjump. My descriptions of the technological resources Byrd brought south with him (chapter 53) are accurate, as is the tale of his extensive exploration of the continent. His secret diary (chapter 77) is fictitious, as are his supposed findings of carved stones and ancient tomes. The German Antarctic expedition of 1938 (chapter 19) happened and is accurately detailed-including the dropping of little swastikas all over the icy surface. Only Hermann Oberhauser's exploits are my creations.
The strange writing and manuscript pages (chapters 12 and 81) are reproduced from the Voynich manuscript. That book rests in the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library at Yale University, and is generally regarded as the most mysterious writing on the planet. No one has ever been able to decipher its text. A good primer on this oddity is The Voynich Manuscript, by Gerry Kennedy and Rob Churchill. The symbol first seen in chapter 10-a monad-came from their book, an archetypal representation originally found in a sixteenth-century treatise. The strange Oberhauser family crest (chapter 25) also is from Kennedy and Churchill's book and is actually the Voynich family coat of arms, created by Voynich himself.
The true explanation of the term Aryan (chapter 12) demonstrates how something so innocuous can become so lethal. The Ahnenerbe, of course, existed. Only in the past few years have historians begun to reveal both its pseudo-scientific chaos and its horrible atrocities (chapter 26). One of the best resources on the topic is The Master Plan, by Heather Pringle. The Ahnenerbe's many international expeditions, detailed in chapter 31, happened and were used extensively to fashion its scientific fiction. Hermann Oberhauser's involvement with the organization is my invention, but his efforts and discrediting are based on the experiences of actual participants.
The concept of a first civilization (chapter 22) is not mine. The idea has been the basis for many books, but Christopher Knight and Alan Butler's Civilization One is excellent. All of the arguments Christl Falk and Douglas Scofield advance for the existence of this first civilization belong to Knight and Butler. Their theory is not all that farfetched, but the reaction to it is similar to how mainstream science once viewed continental drift (chapter 84). Of course, the most obvious question remains. If such a culture existed, why are there no remnants?