by Steve Berry
She nestled closer to the tree.
"After Millicent died," Davis said, "I was assigned to London. I found a cat one day. Sickly. Pregnant. I took her to the vet who saved her, but not the kittens. After, I took the cat back home. Good animal. Never once would she scratch you. Kind. Loving. I enjoyed having her. Then one day she up and died. It hurt. Real bad. I decided then and there that things I love tend to die. So. No more for me."
"Sounds fatalistic."
"More realistic."
Her cell phone vibrated against her chest. She checked the display-Atlanta calling-and clicked on. After listening a moment, she said, "Connect him."
"It's Cotton," she said to Davis. "Time he knows what's happening."
But Davis just kept eating, staring at the house.
"Stephanie," Malone said in her ear. "Did you find what I need to know?"
"Things have become complicated." And, shielding her mouth, she told him some of what had happened. Then she asked, "The file?"
"Probably gone."
And she listened as he recounted what had happened in Germany.
"What are you doing now?" Malone asked her.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Considering the dumb-ass things I've done the past two days, I could believe anything."
She told him.
"I'd say it's not so stupid," Malone said. "I'm standing in the freezing cold myself, outside a Carolingian church. Davis is right. That guy will be back."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Somebody is awfully interested in Blazek, or NR-1A, or whatever the damn sub should be called." Malone's annoyance seemed to have given way to uncertainty. "If the White House said naval intelligence inquired, that means Ramsey's involved. We're on parallel courses, Stephanie."
"I got a guy here munching on a Baby Ruth who says the same thing. I hear you two have talked."
"Anytime somebody saves my ass, I'm grateful."
She recalled central Asia, too, but needed to know, "Where's your path leading, Cotton?"
"Good question. I'll get back to you. Careful there."
"Same to you."
MALONE CLICKED OFF THE PHONE. HE STOOD AT THE FAR END OF the courtyard that accommodated the Christmas market, at the high point of the slope, near Aachen's town hall, facing the chapel a hundred yards off. The snowy building glowed a phosphorescent green. More snow fell in silence, but at least the wind had died.
He checked his watch. Nearly eleven thirty.
All of the booths were shut tight, the swirling currents of voices and bodies silent and still until tomorrow. Only a few people milled about. Christl had not followed him from the chapel and, after speaking with Stephanie, he was even more confused.
Brightness of God.
The term had to be relevant to Einhard's time. Something with a clear meaning. Did the words still possess any significance?
Easy way to find out.
He punched SAFARI on his iPhone, connected to the Internet, and accessed Google. He typed BRIGHTNESS OF GOD EINHARD and pressed SEARCH.
The screen flickered, then displayed the first twenty-five hits.
The top one answered his question.
FORTY-EIGHT
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 13
CHARLOTTE, 12:40 AM
STEPHANIE HEARD THRASHING. NOT LOUD, BUT STEADY ENOUGH for her to know somebody was out there. Davis had dozed off. She'd allowed him to sleep. He needed it. He was troubled and she wanted to help, as Malone had helped her, but she continued to question if what they were doing was smart.
She held a gun, her eyes searching the darkness through trees, into the clearing that surrounded Rowland's house. The windows had been quiet for at least two hours. Her ears grabbed the night and she caught another snap. Off to the right. Pine boughs rustled. She pinpointed the location. Maybe fifty yards away.
She laid her hand over Davis' mouth and tapped his shoulder with the gun. He came awake with a start, and she pressed her palm firm across his lips.
"Company," she whispered.
He nodded in understanding.
She pointed.
Another snap.
Then movement, near Rowland's truck. A dark shadow appeared and merged into the trees, was lost completely for a moment, then there again, heading toward the house.
CHARLIE SMITH APPROACHED THE FRONT DOOR. HERBERT ROWLAND'S cabin had been dark long enough.
He'd spent the afternoon at the movies and enjoyed the steak at Ruth's Chris he'd been craving. All in all, a fairly peaceful day. He'd read newspaper accounts of Admiral David Sylvian's death, pleased that there was no indication of foul play. He'd returned two hours ago and assumed a vigil in the cold woods, waiting.
But everything seemed quiet.
He entered the house through the front door, the lock and dead bolt ridiculously easy to pick, and embraced the central heat inside. He crept first to the refrigerator and checked the insulin vial. The level was definitely lower. He knew each one contained four injections and he estimated another quarter of the saline was gone. With gloved hands, he deposited the vial into a Baggie.
He assessed the chilled whiskey bottles and noticed that one was also noticeably lower. Herbert Rowland had apparently enjoyed his nightly libation. In the kitchen garbage he found a spent syringe and dropped it in the Baggie.
He stepped lightly into the bedroom.
Rowland was nestled under a patchwork quilt, breathing sporadically. He checked the pulse. Slow. The clock on the nightstand read nearly one AM. Probably seven hours had passed since injection. The file said Rowland medicated himself every night before the six o'clock news, then started drinking. With no insulin in his blood tonight, the alcohol had worked fast, inducing a deep diabetic coma. Death would not be far behind.
He hauled over a chair from one corner. He'd have to stay until Rowland died. But he decided not to be foolish. The two people from earlier still weighed on his mind, so he returned to the den and grabbed two of the hunting guns he'd noticed earlier. One of them was a beauty. A Mossberg high-velocity bolt-action. Seven-shot clip, high caliber, equipped with an impressive telescopic scope. The other was a Remington 12-gauge. One of the commemorative Ducks Unlimited models, if he wasn't mistaken. He'd almost bought one himself. A cabinet beneath the gun rack was filled with shells. He loaded both weapons and returned to his bedside post.
Now he was ready.
STEPHANIE GRABBED DAVIS BY THE ARM. HE WAS ALREADY ON HIS feet ready to advance. "What are you doing?"
"We have to go."
"And what is it we're going to do when we get there?"
"Stop him. He's killing that man right now."
She knew he was right.
"I'll take the front door," she said. "The only other way out is through the glass doors on the deck. You cover that. Let's see if we can scare the hell out him and cause a mistake."
Davis headed off.
She followed, wondering if her ally had ever faced a threat like this before. If not, he was one bold son of a bitch. If so, he was an idiot.
They found the graveled drive and hustled toward the house, making little noise. Davis rounded toward the lake and she watched as he tiptoed up wooden risers to the elevated deck. She saw that the sliding glass doors were curtained on the inside. Davis quietly moved to the opposite side of the deck. Satisfied he was in position, she walked to the front door and decided to take the direct approach.
She banged hard on the door.
Then fled the porch.
SMITH BOLTED UP FROM THE CHAIR. SOMEBODY HAD POUNDED ON the front door. Then he heard thumping, from the deck. More knocking. On the glass doors.
"Come out here, you bastard," a man screamed.
Herbert Rowland heard nothing. His breath remained labored as his body continued to shut down.
Smith carried both guns and turned for the den.
STEPHANIE HEARD DAVIS SCREAM A CHALLENGE.
What in the world?
SMITH RUSHED INTO THE DEN, LAID T
HE RIFLE ON THE KITCHEN counter, and fired two shotgun blasts into the curtains that draped the sliding glass doors. Cold air rushed in as the glass was obliterated. He used the moment of confusion to retreat to the kitchen, crouching behind the bar.
Shots from his right, in the den, sent him hurtling to the floor.
STEPHANIE FIRED INTO THE WINDOW ADJACENT TO THE FRONT door. She followed with another shot. Maybe that would be enough to divert the intruder's attention from the deck, where Davis stood unarmed.
She'd heard two shotgun blasts. She'd planned on simply surprising the killer with the fact that people were outside and wait for him to fumble.
Davis apparently had another idea.
SMITH WAS NOT ACCUSTOMED TO BEING CORNERED. THE SAME TWO from earlier? Had to be. Police? Hardly. They'd knocked on the door, for God's sake. One of them even called out, inviting a fight. No, these two were something else. But the analysis could wait. Right now he just needed to get his butt out of here.
What would MacGyver do?
He loved that show.
Use your brain.
STEPHANIE RETREATED FROM THE PORCH AND DARTED TOWARD the deck, careful with the windows, using Rowland's truck for cover. She kept her gun aimed at the house, ready to fire. No way to know if it was safe enough to advance, but she needed to find Davis. The grim threat they'd uncovered had quickly escalated.
She trotted past the house, found the stairs that led up to the deck, and arrived just in time to see Edwin Davis hurl what appeared to be a wrought-iron chair into the glass doors.
SMITH HEARD SOMETHING CRASH THROUGH THE REMAINING GLASS and rip the curtains from the wall. He leveled the shotgun and fired another blast, then used the moment to grab the sport rifle and flee the kitchen, reentering the bedroom. Whoever was out there would have to hesitate, and he needed to use those few seconds to maximum advantage.
Herbert Rowland still lay in the bed. If he wasn't dead already, he was well on the way. But no evidence of any crime was present. The tampered vial and syringe were safe in his pocket. True, guns had been used, but there was nothing leading to his identity.
He found one of the bedroom windows and lifted the lower pane. Quickly he curled himself out. No one seemed to be on this side of the house. He eased the window shut. He should deal with whoever was here, but far too many chances had already been taken.
He decided the smart play was the only play.
Rifle in hand, he plunged into the woods.
"ARE YOU COMPLETELY NUTS?" STEPHANIE SCREAMED AT DAVIS from the ground.
Her compatriot remained on the deck.
"He's gone," Davis said.
She carefully climbed the stairs, not trusting a word he said.
"I heard a window open, then close."
"That doesn't mean he's gone, it just means a window opened and closed."
Davis stepped through the destroyed glass doors.
"Edwin-"
He disappeared into the blackness and she rushed in behind him. He was headed for the bedroom. A light switched on and she came to the door. Davis was taking Herbert Rowland's pulse.
"Barely beating. And he apparently didn't hear a thing. He's in a coma."
She was still concerned about a man with a shotgun. Davis reached for the phone and she saw him punch three numbers.
911.
FORTY-NINE
WASHINGTON, DC
1:30 AM
RAMSEY HEARD THE FRONT DOOR CHIME. HE SMILED. HE'D BEEN sitting patiently, reading a thriller by David Morrell, one of his favorite writers. He closed the book and allowed his late-night visitor to sweat a little. Finally, he stood, walked into the foyer, and opened the door.
Senator Aatos Kane stood outside in the cold.
"You sorry no good-" Kane said.
He shrugged. "Actually, I thought my response was rather mild considering the rudeness I was shown by your aide."
Kane stormed inside.
Ramsey did not offer to take the senator's coat. Apparently, the map store operative had already done as instructed, sending a message through Kane's aide, the same insolent prick who'd strong-armed him on the Capitol Mall, that she possessed information concerning the disappearance of an aide who'd worked for Kane three years ago. That woman had been an attractive redhead from Michigan who'd tragically fallen victim to a serial killer who had plagued the DC area. The mass murderer was eventually found, after committing suicide, the whole affair making headlines across the country.
"You sorry bastard," Kane screamed. "You said it was over."
"Let's sit down."
"I don't want to sit. I want to punch your lights out."
"Which will change nothing." He loved twisting the knife. "I'll still have the upper hand. So you have to ask yourself. Do you want to have a chance to be president? Or would you prefer certain disgrace?"
Kane's anger was accompanied by a clear uneasiness. The view from inside the trap looking out was quite different.
They continued to exchange hard glances, like two lions deciding on who should feast first. Finally, Kane nodded. Ramsey led the senator into the den, where they sat. The room was small, which forced an awkward intimacy. Kane seemed uncomfortable, as he should be.
"I came to you last night, and this morning, to ask for help," Ramsey said. "A sincere request made to, what I thought, was a friend." He paused. "I was offered nothing in return but arrogance. Your aide was rude and obnoxious. Of course, he was simply doing as you instructed. Hence, my response."
"You're a deceitful bastard."
"And you're a cheating husband who managed to conceal his mistake with the convenient death of a serial killer. You even extracted, as I recall, public sympathy for your aide's tragic demise by displaying outrage at her fate. What would your constituents, your family, think if they knew she'd recently aborted a pregnancy-and you were the father?"
"There's no proof of that."
"Yet you sure were panicked at the time."
"You know that she could have ruined me, whether I was the father or not. Her allegations would have been all that mattered."
Ramsey sat ramrod-straight. Admiral Dyals had taught him how to clearly convey who was in charge.
"And your lover knew that," he said, "which is why she was able to manipulate you, which is again why you were so appreciative of my help."
The memory of his past predicament seemed to calm Kane's anger. "I had no idea what you planned. I would have never agreed to what you actually did."
"Really? It was the smart play. We killed her, framed another killer, then killed him. As I recall, the press applauded the outcome. The suicide saved a trial and execution and made for some terrific news stories." He paused. "And I don't recall a single objection voiced by you at the time."
He knew that the most dangerous threat any politician faced was an accusation from a supposed lover. So many had been brought down in such a simple manner. It didn't matter if the allegations were unproven or even patently false. All that mattered was they existed.
Kane sat back in the chair. "I had little choice once I realized what you'd done. What do you want, Ramsey?"
No Admiral, nor even the courtesy of a first name. "I want to ensure that I become the next member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I thought I made that clear today."
"Do you know how many others want that job?"
"Several, I'm sure. But, you see, Aatos, I created that vacancy, so it should rightfully be mine."
Kane stared at him with uncertainty, digesting the admission. "I should have known."
"I'm telling you this for three reasons. First, I know you're not going to tell anyone. Second, you need to understand who you are dealing with. And third, I know you want to be president. The experts say you have a reasonable shot. The party supports you, your poll numbers are excellent, the competition is unimpressive. You have the contacts and the means to raise contributions. I'm told that, privately, you have an assurance of thirty million dollars as seed money from a variety of do
nors."
"You've been busy," Kane said with an air of pained politeness.
"You're reasonably young, in good health, your wife supports you in every way. Your children adore you. All in all, you'd make quite the candidate."
"Except that I screwed a staffer three years ago, she got pregnant, aborted the baby, and then decided she loved me."
"Something like that. Unfortunately, for her, she fell victim to a mass murderer, one who, in the throes of insanity, took his own life. Thankfully, he left quite a bit of evidence behind that linked him to all of the crimes, hers included, so a potential disaster for you turned into a plus."
And Ramsey had wisely hedged his bets by obtaining the abortion records from the South Texas clinic and a copy of the videotaped mandatory counseling session Texas law required before any abortion could be performed. The staffer, though using false identification, had broken down and told the counselor, without naming names, of an affair with her employer. Not a lot of details, but enough to play well on Inside Edition, Extra, or The Maury Show-and utterly ruin Aatos Kane's chances for the White House.
The operative from the map store had done well, making clear to Kane's chief of staff that she was that counselor. She wanted to speak with the senator or she planned on calling Fox News, which never seemed to have anything good to say about Kane. Reputations. More fragile than fine crystal.
"You killed Sylvian?" Kane asked.
"What do you think?"
Kane was studying him with an undisguised contempt. But he was so anxious, so willing, so pathetic, that his resistance immediately eroded. "Okay, I think I can make the appointment happen. Daniels needs me."
Ramsey's face relaxed into a reassuring smile. "I knew that to be the case. Now let's discuss the other thing."
No wit, humor, sympathy invaded his eyes.
"What other thing?"
"I will be your running mate."
Kane laughed. "You're insane."
"Actually, I'm not. The next presidential race is not going to be difficult to predict. Three candidates, maybe four, none in your league. There'll be some primary fights, but you have too many resources, and too much firepower, for anyone to go the distance. Now, you might try to heal the party divide by selecting the strongest loser, or one who does no harm, but neither choice would make sense. The former comes with bitterness and the latter is useless in a fight. You could try to find someone who brings a particular slice of the electorate your way, but that would assume voters favor the top of the ticket because of the bottom, which history shows to be nonsense. More realistically, you could select someone from a state where a running mate could deliver electoral votes. Again, that's nonsense. John Kerry chose John Edwards in 2004 but lost North Carolina. He even lost Edwards' home precinct."
