by Steve Berry
Silence engulfed the church.
Werner lay on the ground. Christl stood. Dorothea sat. Malone glared to his left.
In an upper gallery above the church's vestibule, where centuries ago a choir may have sung, Ulrich Henn lowered a scoped rifle. Beside him, grim and defiant, gazing down from her vantage point, stood Isabel Oberhauser.
FIFTY-SEVEN
WASHINGTON, DC
RAMSEY WATCHED AS DIANE MCCOY OPENED THE CAR DOOR AND slipped into the passenger seat. He'd been waiting outside the administrative building for her to arrive. Her call fifteen minutes ago had signaled alarm.
"What the hell have you done?" she asked.
He wasn't about to volunteer anything.
"Daniels ordered me into the Oval Office an hour ago and reamed my ass."
"You going to tell me why?"
"Don't play that coy crap with me. You leaned on Aatos Kane, didn't you?"
"I spoke with him."
"And he spoke with the president."
He sat patient and quiet. He'd known McCoy for several years. He'd studied her background. She was careful and deliberate. The nature of her job demanded patience. Yet here she was outright mad. Why?
His cell phone, resting on the dashboard, lit up, signaling an incoming message. "Excuse me. I can't be unavailable." He checked the display, but did not respond. "It can wait. What's wrong, Diane? I simply asked for the senator's assistance. Are you telling me that no one else has made contact with the White House trying the same thing?"
"I'm telling you that Aatos Kane is a different animal. What did you do?"
"Not all that much. He was thrilled that I communicated with him. He said that I would make an excellent addition to the Joint Chiefs. I told him that if he felt that way, then I would appreciate any support he could show."
"Langford, it's just you and me here, so cut the speeches. Daniels was flaming mad. He resented Kane's involvement, blamed me. Said I was in league with you."
He screwed his face into a frown. "In league for what?"
"You're a piece of work. You told me the other day that you could deliver Kane and you damn well did. I don't want to know how or why, but I do want to know how Daniels tied me to you. This is my ass here."
"And a nice ass it is."
She exhaled. "How is that productive?"
"It's not. Just a truthful observation."
"Are you going to offer anything to help? I've worked a long time to get this far."
"What exactly did the president say?" He needed to know.
She slapped away his question with the back of her hand. "Like I'm going to tell you that."
"Why not? You're accusing me of something improper, so I'd like to know what Daniels had to say."
"Mighty different attitude from when we last talked." Her voice had dropped.
He shrugged. "As I recall, you thought I'd make a fine addition to the Joint Chiefs, too. Is it not your duty, as national security adviser, to recommend good people to the president?"
"Okay, Admiral. Play the part, be a good soldier. The president of the United States is still pissed and so is Senator Kane."
"I can't imagine why. My conversation with the senator was most pleasant, and I haven't even spoken to the president, so I can't understand why he's angry with me."
"You going to Admiral Sylvian's funeral?"
He caught the subject shift. "Of course. I've been asked to participate in the honor guard."
"You've got balls."
He threw her his most charming smile. "I was actually touched to be asked."
"I came because we needed to talk. I'm sitting here in a parked car, like a fool, because I got myself entangled with you-"
"Entangled in what?"
"You know damn well what. The other night you made it clear that there was going to be a vacancy in the Joint Chiefs. One that didn't exist at the time."
"That's not what I recall. You're the one who wanted to speak to me. It was late, but you insisted. You came to my house. You were concerned about Daniels and his attitude toward the military. We spoke of the Joint Chiefs, in the abstract. Neither of us was aware that any vacancy would arise. Certainly not the next day. It's a tragedy that David Sylvian died. He was a fine man, but I fail to see how that has entangled us in any way."
She shook her head in disbelief. "I have to go."
He didn't stop her.
"Have a nice day, Admiral."
And she slammed the door.
He quickly replayed the conversation in his mind. He'd done well, delivering his thoughts in a casual manner. The night before last, when he and Diane McCoy had talked, she'd been an ally. Of that he was sure. But things had changed.
Ramsey's briefcase sat on the rear seat. Inside was a sophisticated monitor used to determine if electronic devices were either recording or broadcasting nearby. Ramsey kept one of the monitors in his house, which was how he knew no one had been listening.
Hovey had canvassed the parking lot, using a series of mounted security cameras. The call to his phone had been a text message. HER CAR PARKED IN WEST LOT. ACCESSED. RECEIVER AND RECORDER INSIDE. The monitor in the backseat had also sent a signal, so the final part of the message had been clear. she's wired.
He exited the car and locked the doors.
Couldn't be Kane. He'd been too interested in benefits coming his way and could not risk even the possibility of exposure. The senator knew that a betrayal would mean quick and devastating consequences.
No.
This was pure Diane McCoy.
MALONEWATCHED AS WERNER UNTIED DOROTHEA FROM THE COLUMN and she yanked the tape from across her mouth.
"What were you thinking?" she yelled. "Are you insane?"
"He was going to shoot you," her husband calmly said. "I knew Herr Malone was here, with a gun."
Malone stood in the nave, his attention toward the upper gallery and Isabel and Ulrich Henn. "I see you're not as ignorant of things as you wanted me to believe."
"Those men were here to kill you," the old woman replied.
"And how did you know they'd be here?"
"I came to make sure my daughters were safe."
Not an answer, so he faced Christl. Her eyes gave no indication as to her thoughts. "I waited in the village for you to arrive, but you were way ahead of me."
"It wasn't hard to find the connection between Einhard and Brightness of God."
He pointed up. "But that doesn't explain how she and your sister knew."
"I spoke with Mother last night, after you left."
He walked toward Werner. "I agree with your wife. What you did was foolish."
"You needed his attention drawn. I didn't have a gun, so I did what I thought would work."
"He could have shot you," Dorothea said.
"That would have ended our marriage problem."
"I never said I wanted you dead."
Malone understood the love-hate of marriage. His own had been the same way, even years after they separated. Luckily he'd made peace with his ex, though it had taken effort. These two, though, seemed a long way from any resolution.
"I did what I had to," Werner said. "And I'd do it again."
Malone glanced back up at the choir. Henn fled his post at the balustrade and disappeared behind Isabel.
"Can we now find whatever there is to find?" Isabel asked.
Henn reappeared and he saw the man whisper something to his employer.
"Herr Malone," Isabel said. "There were four men sent. We thought the other two would not be a problem, but they just entered the gate."
FIFTY-EIGHT
ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA
10:40 AM
CHARLIE SMITH STUDIED THE FILE ON DOUGLAS SCOFIELD. HE'D prepped this target over a year ago, but, unlike the others, this man had always been labeled optional.
Not anymore.
Apparently plans had changed, so he needed to refresh his memory.
He'd left Charlotte, heading north on US 321
to Hickory, where he'd veered onto I-40 and sped west toward the Smoky Mountains. He'd checked on the Internet, verifying that information in the file remained accurate. Dr. Scofield was scheduled to speak at a symposium he hosted every winter, this year's on the grounds of the famous Biltmore Estate. The event seemed a gathering of weirdos. Ufology, ghosts, necrology, alien abductions, cryptozoology. Lots of bizarre subjects. Scofield, though a professor of anthropology at a Tennessee university, was deeply involved with pseudo-science, authoring a host of books and articles. Since Smith had not known when, or if, he'd be ordered to move on Douglas Scofield, he hadn't given much thought to the man's demise.
He was now parked outside a McDonald's, a hundred yards from the entrance to Biltmore Estate.
He casually scanned the file.
Scofield's interests varied. He loved hunting, spending many a winter weekend in search of deer and wild boar. A bow was his choice of weapon, though he owned an impressive collection of high-powered rifles. Smith still carried the one he'd taken from Herbert Rowland's house, lying in the trunk, loaded, just in case. Fishing and white-water rafting were more of Scofield's passions, though this time of year opportunities for either would be limited.
He'd downloaded the conference schedule, trying to digest any aspects that might prove useful. He was troubled by the previous night's escapade. Those two had not been there by accident. Though he savored every bit of the conceit that swirled inside him-after all, confidence was everything-there was no sense being foolish.
He needed to be prepared.
Two aspects of the conference schedule caught his attention, and two ideas formed.
One defensive, the other offensive.
He hated rush jobs, but wasn't about to concede to Ramsey that he couldn't handle it.
He grabbed his cell phone and found the number in Atlanta.
Thank goodness Georgia was nearby.
MALONE, REACTING TO ISABEL'S WARNING, SAID TO HER, "I ONLY have one round left."
She spoke to Henn, who reached beneath his coat, produced a handgun, and tossed it down. Malone caught the weapon. Two spare magazines followed.
"You come prepared," he said.
"Always," Isabel said.
He pocketed the magazines.
"Pretty bold of you to trust me earlier," Werner said.
"Like I had a choice."
"Still."
Malone glanced at Christl and Dorothea. "You three take cover somewhere." He motioned beyond the altar to the apse. "Back there looks good."
He watched as they hustled off then called up to Isabel, "Could we take at least one of them alive?"
Henn was already gone.
She nodded. "It depends on them."
He heard two shots from inside the church.
"Ulrich has engaged them," she said.
He rushed through the nave, back into the vestibule, and exited into the cloister. He spotted one of the men on the far side, scurrying between the arches. Daylight waned. The temperature had noticeably dropped.
More shots.
From outside the church.
STEPHANIE EXITED I-40 ONTO A BUSY BOULEVARD AND FOUND the main entrance to Biltmore Estate. She'd actually visited here twice before, once, like now, during the Christmas season. The estate comprised thousands of acres, the centerpiece being a 175,000-square-foot French Renaissance chateau, the largest privately owned residence in America. Originally a country retreat for George Vanderbilt, built in the late 1880s, it had evolved into a swanky tourist attraction, a glowing testament to America's lost Gilded Age.
A collection of brick and pebbledash houses, many with steep gabled roofs, timbered dormers, and wide porches crowded together to her left. Brick sidewalks lined cozy, tree-lined streets. Pine boughs and Christmas ribbons draped street lamps and a zillion white lights lit the fading afternoon for the holidays.
"Biltmore Village," she said. "Where estate workers and servants once lived. Vanderbilt built them their own town."
"Like something from Dickens."
"They made it seem like an English country village. Now it's shops and cafes."
"You know a lot about this place."
"It's one of my favorite spots."
She noticed a McDonald's, its architecture consistent with the picturesque surroundings. "I need a bathroom break." She slowed and turned into the restaurant's parking lot.
"One of their milk shakes would be good," Davis said.
"You have a strange diet."
He shrugged. "Whatever fills the stomach."
She checked her watch. 11:15 AM. "A quick stop, then into the estate. The hotel is a mile or so inside the gates."
CHARLIE SMITH ORDERED HIMSELF A BIG MAC, NO SAUCE, NO onions, fries, and a large Diet Coke. One of his favorite meals, and since he weighed about 150 pounds sopping wet, weight had never been a concern. He was blessed with a hyper metabolism-that and an active lifestyle, exercise three times a week, and a healthy diet. Yeah, right. His idea of exercise was dialing for room service or carrying a take-out bag to the car. His job provided more than enough exertion for him.
He leased an apartment outside Washington, DC, but rarely stayed there. He needed to develop roots. Maybe it was time to buy a place of his own-like Bailey Mill. He'd been screwing with Ramsey's head the other day, but perhaps he could fix up that old Maryland farmhouse and live there, in the country. It'd be quaint. Like the buildings that now surrounded him. Even the McDonald's didn't look like any he'd ever seen. Shaped like a storybook house with a player piano in the dining room, marble tiles, and a shimmering waterfall.
He sat with his tray.
After he ate, he'd head toward the Biltmore Inn. He'd already reserved a room online for the next two nights. A classy place and pricey, too. But he liked the best. Deserved it, actually. And, besides, Ramsey paid expenses, so what did he care what it cost?
The schedule for the 14th Annual Ancient Mysteries Revealed Conference, also posted online, noted that Douglas Scofield would serve tomorrow evening as the keynote speaker at a dinner, included with the registration. A cocktail party would be held before the event in the hotel's lobby.
He'd heard of Biltmore Estate but never visited. Maybe he'd tour the mansion and see how the other half once lived. Get some decorating ideas. After all, he could afford quality. Who said killing didn't pay? He'd amassed nearly twenty million dollars from fees and investments. He'd also meant what he'd said to Ramsey the other day. He did not intend on doing this for the rest of his life, no matter how much he enjoyed the work.
He squirted a dab of mustard and a smear of ketchup on his Big Mac. He didn't like a lot of condiments, just enough to give it flavor. He munched on the burger and watched the people, many clearly here to visit Biltmore at Christmas and shop in the village.
The whole place seemed geared to tourists.
Which was great.
Lots of obscure faces among which to disappear.
MALONE HAD TWO PROBLEMS. FIRST, HE WAS PURSUING AN UNKNOWN gunman through a dim, frigid cloister, and second, he was relying on allies that were wholly untrustworthy.
Two things had clued him in.
First, Werner Lindauer. I knew Herr Malone was here, with a gun. Really? Since in their brief encounter Malone had not once mentioned who he was, how did Werner know? Nobody in the church had uttered his name.
And second, the gunman.
Never once had he seemed concerned that someone else was there, someone who'd shot his accomplice. Christl had indicated that she'd told her mother about Ossau. She could also have mentioned that he would come. But that wouldn't explain Werner Lindauer's presence or how he immediately knew Malone's identity. And if Christl had provided the information, that act showed a level of Oberhauser cooperation that he'd thought didn't exist.
All of which spelled trouble.
He stopped and listened to the wheezing of the wind. He stayed low, below the arches, knees aching. Across the garden, through the falling snow, he spotted no moveme
nt. Cold air burned his throat and lungs.
He shouldn't be indulging his curiosity, but he couldn't help it. Though he suspected what was happening, he needed to know.
DOROTHEA WATCHED WERNER, WHO CONFIDENTLY HELD THE GUN Malone had offered. During the past twenty-four hours she'd learned a lot about this man. Things she'd never suspected.
"I'm going out there," Christl said.
She couldn't resist. "I saw the way you looked at Malone. You care for him."
"He needs help."
"From you?"
Christl shook her head and left.
"Are you okay?" Werner asked.
"I will be when this is over. Trusting Christl, or my mother, is a big mistake. You know that."
Cold gripped her. She wrapped her arms across her chest and sought comfort within her wool coat. They'd followed Malone's advice, retreating into the apse, playing their parts. The ruinous condition of the church cast a foreboding spell. Had her grandfather actually found answers here?
Werner grasped her arm. "We can do this."
"We have no choice," she said, still not happy with the options her mother had offered.
"You can either make the best of it, or fight it to your detriment. Doesn't matter to anyone else, but it should matter a great deal to you."
She caught an underlying insecurity in his words. "The gunman was genuinely caught off guard when you tackled him."
He shrugged. "We told him to expect a surprise or two."
"That we did."
The day was sinking away. Shadows inside were lengthening, the temperature dropping.
"He obviously never believed he was going to die," Werner said.
"His mistake."
"What about Malone? Do you think he realizes?"
She hesitated before answering, recalling her reservations from the other day at the abbey, when she first met him.
"He'd better."
MALONE STAYED BENEATH THE ARCHES AND RETREATED TOWARD one of the rooms that opened off the cloister. He stood inside, amid the snow and debris, and assessed his resources. He had a gun and bullets, so why not try the same tactic that had worked for Werner? Perhaps the gunman on the opposite side of the cloister would head toward him, making his way to the church, and he could surprise him.
