The Charlemagne Pursuit cm-4 Page 25

  Footsteps.

  Coming his way.

  RAMSEY LEFT HIS CAR AND HUSTLED THROUGH THE COLD, ENTERING naval intelligence's main administrative building. He was not required to pass through any security checkpoint. Instead a lieutenant from his staff waited at the door. On the walk to his office, he received his usual morning briefing.

  Hovey was waiting in his office. "Wilkerson's body has been found."

  "Tell me."

  "In Munich, near Olympic Park. Shot in the head."

  "You should be pleased."

  "Good riddance."

  But Ramsey wasn't as thrilled. The conversation with Isabel Oberhauser still weighed on his mind.

  "Do you want me to authorize payment to the contract help who handled the job?"

  "Not yet." He'd already called overseas. "I have them doing something else, in France, at the moment."

  CHARLIE SMITH SAT INSIDE SHONEY'S AND FINISHED HIS BOWL OF grits. He loved them, especially with salt and three pats of butter. He hadn't slept much. Last night was a problem. Those two had come for him.

  He'd fled the house and parked a few miles down the highway. He'd spotted an ambulance rushing to the scene and followed it to a hospital on the outskirts of Charlotte. He'd wanted to go inside, but decided against the move. Instead he'd returned to his hotel and tried to sleep.

  He would have to call Ramsey shortly. The only acceptable report was that all three targets had been eliminated. Any hint of a problem and Smith would find himself a target. He taunted Ramsey, took advantage of their long-standing relationship, exploited his successes, all because he knew Ramsey needed him.

  But that would change in an instant if he failed.

  He checked his watch.

  6:15 AM.

  He had to risk it.

  He'd noticed a phone outside, so he paid his bill and made the call. When the hospital's menu was recited in his ear, he selected the option for patient information. Since he did not know the room number, he waited until an operator came on the line.

  "I need to find out about Herbert Rowland. He's my uncle and was brought in last night."

  He was told to hold a moment, then the woman came back. "We're sorry to say that Mr. Rowland died shortly after arriving."

  He feigned shock. "That's horrible."

  The woman offered her condolences. He thanked her, hung up, and exhaled a sigh of relief.

  That was close.

  He grabbed his composure, found his cell phone, and dialed a familiar number. When Ramsey answered he cheerfully said, "Three for three. Batting a thousand, as usual."

  "I'm so glad you take pride in your work."

  "We aim to please."

  "Then please me once more. The fourth one. You have the okay. Do it."

  MALONE LISTENED. SOMEBODY WAS BOTH BEHIND AND AHEAD OF him. He kept low and darted into one of the rooms that opened off the gallery, this one, he saw, with walls and a ceiling. He pressed his spine taut against the inner wall, adjacent to the doorway. Darkness exaggerated the room's shadowy corners. He was twenty feet from the church entrance.

  More footsteps.

  From back down the gallery, away from the church.

  He gripped the gun and waited.

  Whoever was there kept approaching. Had they seen him slip inside? Apparently not, as they made no effort to mask their steps through the brittle snow. He readied himself and cocked his head, using peripheral vision to watch the doorway. The footsteps were now on the opposite side of the wall against which he was pressed.

  A form appeared, walking toward the church.

  He pivoted and grabbed for a shoulder, swinging the gun around and whirling whoever it was into the outer wall, the gun jammed into ribs.

  Shock stared back.

  A man.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  CHARLOTTE, 6:27 AM

  STEPHANIE MADE A CALL TO MAGELLAN BILLET HEADQUARTERS and requested some information on Dr. Douglas Scofield. She and Davis were alone. Half an hour ago two Secret Service agents had arrived and brought with them a secure laptop, which Davis commandeered. The agents were ordered to take custody of Herbert Rowland, who was being moved into a new room under another name. Davis had spoken with the hospital administrator and obtained her cooperation in announcing that Rowland had died. Surely somebody was going to check. Sure enough, the patient information operator had already reported a call twenty minutes ago-from a male who identified himself as a nephew-inquiring into Rowland's condition.

  "That should make him happy," Davis said. "I doubt our killer will risk a trip inside. To make sure, there'll be an obituary in the paper. I've told the agents to explain it all to the Rowlands and get their cooperation."

  "A bit rough on friends and family," she said.

  "It'll be rougher if the guy realizes his mistake and comes back to finish what he started."

  The laptop signaled an incoming e-mail. Stephanie clicked open the message from her office:

  Douglas Scofield is a professor of anthropology at East Tennessee State University. He was associated with the navy from 1968 to 1972 on a contract basis, his activities classified. Access is possible but will leave a trail, so it wasn't done as you indicated silence on these inquiries. His published works are numerous. Besides the usual anthropological journals, he writes for New Age and occult magazines. A quick Internet check revealed subject matters that include Atlantis, UFOs, ancient astronauts, and paranormal events. He's the author of Maps of Ancient Explorers (1986), a popular account of how cartography may have been influenced by lost cultures. He is currently attending a conference in Asheville, North Carolina, titled Ancient Mysteries Revealed. Being held at the Inn on Biltmore Estate. About 150 registered. He's one of the organizers and a featured speaker. Seems an annual event, as this is billed as the fourteenth conference.

  "He's the only one left," Davis said. He'd been reading over her shoulder. "Asheville's not far from here."

  She knew what he was thinking. "You're not serious."

  "I'm going. You can come if you want. He needs to be approached."

  "Then send the Secret Service."

  "Stephanie, the last thing we need is a show of force. Let's just go and see where it leads."

  "Our friend from last night may be there, too."

  "We can only hope."

  Another ding singled an answer to her second inquiry, so she opened the reply and read:

  The navy leases warehouse space at Fort Lee, Virginia. They have since World War II. Presently, they control three buildings. Only one is high security and contains a refrigerated compartment installed in 1972. Access is restricted by numeric code and fingerprint verification through Office of Naval Intelligence. I managed to view its visitor log stored on the navy's database. Interestingly, it's not classified. Only one non-Fort Lee personnel entered during the last 180 days. Admiral Langford Ramsey, yesterday.

  "Still want to argue with me?" Davis asked. "You know I'm right."

  "All the more reason for us to get help."

  Davis shook his head. "The president won't let us."

  "Wrong. You won't let us."

  Davis' face conveyed challenge and submission. "I have to do this. Maybe you have to do it now, too. Remember, Malone's father was on that boat."

  "Which Cotton should know."

  "Let's get him some answers first."

  "Edwin, you could have been killed last night."

  "But I wasn't."

  "Revenge is the quickest way to get yourself killed. Why don't you let me handle this? I have agents."

  They remained alone in a small conference room the hospital administrator had provided.

  "That's not going to happen," he said.

  She could see arguing was pointless. Forrest Malone had been on that sub-and Davis was right, that was enough incentive for her.

  She shut down the laptop and stood.

  "I'd say we have about a three-hour ride to Asheville."

  "WHO ARE YOU?" MALONE ASKED THE MAN.
/>   "You scared me to death."

  "Answer my question."

  "Werner Lindauer."

  He made the connection. "Dorothea's husband?"

  The man nodded. "My passport's in my pocket."

  No time for that. He withdrew the gun and yanked his captive back into the side room, out of the gallery. "What are you doing here?"

  "Dorothea walked here three hours ago. I came to see about her."

  "How did she find this place?"

  "You apparently don't know Dorothea that well. She doesn't explain herself. Christl is here, too."

  That, he had expected. He'd waited in the hotel, believing she either knew of this place or would locate it the same way he'd managed.

  "She came up here before Dorothea."

  He turned his attention back into the cloister. Time to see what was inside the church. He motioned with the gun. "You first. To the right and into that doorway at the end."

  "Is that wise?"

  "Nothing about this is smart."

  He followed Werner into the gallery, then through the double archway at its end, and immediately sought cover behind a thick column. A wide nave, made to seem narrow by more columns that extended its length, stretched before him. The columns turned in a semicircle behind the altar, following the curve of the apse. Bare walls on either side were high, the aisles broad. No decoration or ornamentation anywhere, the church more ruin than building. The wind's haunting music sounded through bare window frames partitioned by stone crosses. He spotted the altar, a pillar of pitted granite, but what sat before it drew his attention.

  Two people. Gagged.

  One on either side, on the floor, their arms tied behind them around a column.

  Dorothea and Christl.

  FIFTY-SIX

  WASHINGTON, DC

  7:24 AM

  RAMSEY MARCHED BACK TOWARD HIS OFFICE. HE WAS WAITING FOR a report from France and had made clear to the men overseas that he wanted to hear only that Cotton Malone was dead. After that he'd turn his attention to Isabel Oberhauser, but he had not, as yet, decided how best to handle that problem. He'd thought about her during the entire briefing he'd just attended, recalling something he'd once heard. I've been right and I've been paranoid and it's better being paranoid.

  He agreed.

  Luckily he knew a lot about the old woman.

  She married Dietz Oberhauser in the late 1950s. He was the son of a wealthy, aristocratic Bavarian family, she the daughter of a local mayor. Her father had been associated with the Nazis during the war, used by the Americans in the years after. She assumed full control of the Oberhauser fortune in 1972, after Dietz disappeared. Eventually, she had him declared legally dead. This activated his will, which left everything to her, in trust, for the benefit of their daughters. Before Ramsey had dispatched Wilkerson to make contact, he'd studied that will. Interestingly, the decision as to when financial control passed to the daughters had been left entirely to Isabel. Thirty-eight years had elapsed and still she remained in charge. Wilkerson had reported that great animosity existed between the sisters, which might explain a few things, but until today the Oberhauser family discord had meant little to him.

  He knew that Isabel had long been interested in Blazek and made no secret of her desire to learn what had happened. She'd retained lawyers who'd tried to access information through official channels, and when that failed, she attempted covertly to learn what she could through bribery. His counterintelligence people had detected the attempts and reported them. That's when he assumed personal responsibility and assigned Wilkerson.

  Now his man was dead. How?

  He knew Isabel employed an East German named Ulrich Henn. The background report noted that Henn's maternal grandfather had commanded one of Hitler's reception camps and supervised the tossing of 28,000 Ukrainians down a ravine. At his war crimes trial he denied nothing and proudly stated, I was there. Which made it easy for the Allies to hang him.

  Henn was raised by a stepfather who assimilated his new family into communist society. Henn served in the East German military, former Stasi, his current benefactor not all that dissimilar from his communist bosses, both making decisions in the calculating manner of an accountant, then executing them with the unquestioning remorse of a despot.

  Isabel was indeed a formidable woman.

  She possessed money, power, and nerve. But her weakness was her husband. She wanted to know why he died. Her obsession had been of no real concern until Stephanie Nelle accessed the file on NR-1A and sent it across the Atlantic to Cotton Malone.

  Now it was a problem.

  One that he hoped was being solved, right now, in France.

  MALONE WATCHED AS CHRISTL SPOTTED HIM AND STRUGGLED against her restraints. Tape sealed her mouth. She shook her head.

  Two men showed themselves from the behind the columns. The one on the left was tall, lanky, and dark-haired, the other stout and fair-headed. He wondered how many more were lurking.

  "We came for you," Dark said to him, "and found these two already here."

  Malone stayed behind a column, gun ready. They didn't know he was limited to three rounds.

  "And why am I so interesting?"

  "Beats the hell out of me. I'm just glad you are."

  Fair brought a gun barrel close to Dorothea Lindauer's skull.

  "We'll start with her," Dark said.

  He was thinking, assessing, noting that there'd been no mention of Werner. He faced Lindauer and whispered, "Ever shot a man?"

  "No."

  "Can you?"

  He hesitated. "If I had to. For Dorothea."

  "Can you shoot?"

  "I've hunted all my life."

  He decided to add to his growing resume of stupid things and handed Werner the automatic.

  "What do you want me to do?" Werner asked.

  "Shoot one of them."

  "Which one?"

  "I don't care. Just shoot, before they shoot me."

  Werner's head bobbed in understanding.

  Malone sucked a few deep breaths, steeled himself, and stepped away from the column, his hands exposed. "Okay, here I am."

  Neither of the assailants moved. Apparently, he'd caught them by surprise. Which had been the whole idea. Fair withdrew his gun from Dorothea Lindauer and completely emerged from behind his column. He was young, alert, and on guard, automatic rifle leveled.

  A shot popped and Fair's chest exploded from a direct hit.

  Werner Lindauer apparently could shoot.

  Malone dove right, seeking cover behind another column, knowing Dark would take only a nanosecond to recover. A swift blast of automatic fire and bullets pinged off the stone a few inches from his head. He glanced across the nave at Werner, who was safe behind a column.

  Dark hissed a string of obscenities, then screamed, "I'm going to kill them both. Right now."

  "I don't give a damn," he called out.

  "Really? You sure?"

  He needed to force a mistake. He motioned at Werner that he intended to advance forward, down the transept, using the columns for cover.

  Now for the true test. He motioned for Werner to toss him the gun.

  The man lobbed the weapon his way. He caught it and signaled to stay put.

  Malone swung left and darted across the open space to the next column.

  More bullets streaked his way.

  He caught a glimpse of Dorothea and Christl, still tied to their column. Only two rounds remained in the gun, so he grabbed a softball-sized rock and hurled the stone toward Dark, then crossed to the next column. The projectile crashed into something and thudded away.

  Five more columns remained between him and Dorothea Lindauer, who was tied on his side of the nave.

  "Take a look," Dark said.

  He risked a glance.

  Christl lay on the rough pavement. Ropes dangled from her wrists but they'd been cut, freeing her. Dark kept his body hidden, but Malone spotted the end of the rifle pointed down.

 
"You don't care?" Dark called out. "You want to watch her die?"

  A burst of bullets ricocheted off the pavement just behind where Christl lay. Fear sent her scrambling forward across the lichen-infested flooring.

  "Stop," Dark yelled at her.

  She did.

  "Next volley and her legs are gone."

  He paused, attuning his senses, wondering about Werner Lindauer. Where was he?

  "I guess there's no way we can discuss this?" he asked.

  "Toss your weapon away and get your ass out here."

  Still no mention of Werner. The gunman surely knew there was someone else here. "Like I said. I don't give a damn. Kill her."

  He pivoted right as he spoke the challenge, his angle better now that he was closer to the altar. In the unearthly greenish light that filtered in from the fading afternoon, he saw Dark drift a couple of feet back from his column, seeking a better shot at Christl.

  Malone fired but the bullet missed.

  One round left.

  Dark retook cover.

  Malone darted to the next column. He spotted a shadow approaching Dark from the row of columns that spread to the back of the nave. Dark's attention was on Malone, so the shadow was free to scoot ahead. Its shape and size confirmed its identity. Werner Lindauer was gutsy.

  "Okay, you've got a gun," Dark said. "I shoot her, you shoot me. But I can take the other sister without giving you a crack at me."

  Malone heard a grunt, then a thud as flesh and bones pounded something that had not given way. Malone peered around the column and saw Werner Lindauer on top of Dark, a fist raised. The two struggling men rolled out into the nave and Dark shoved Werner away, both hands still gripping the weapon.

  Christl had sprung to her feet.

  Dark started to stand.

  Malone aimed.

  The crack of a rifle reverberated across the cavernous walls.

  Blood poured from Dark's neck. The gun dropped from his grip as he realized he'd been shot and reached for his throat, struggling to breathe. Malone heard another crack-a second shot-and Dark's body stiffened then fell, landing hard, spine first.