The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

No answer.

  He stared back at Christl Falk, who sat unconcerned.

  And he left.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  CHARLOTTE, 5:20 PM

  Stephanie and Edwin Davis huddled in the woods fifty yards from Herbert Rowland’s lakeside house. Rowland had arrived home fifteen minutes ago and hurried inside carrying a pizza box. He’d immediately come back out and retrieved three logs from the woodpile. Smoke now puffed from a rough-hacked stone chimney. She wished they had a fire.

  They’d spent a couple of hours during the afternoon buying additional winter clothes, thick gloves, and wool caps. They’d also stocked up on snacks and drink, then returned and assumed a position where they could safely watch the house. Davis doubted the killer would return before nightfall, but wanted to be in position just in case.

  “He’s in for the night,” Davis said, keeping his voice to a whisper.

  Though the trees blocked a breeze, the dry air was chilling by the minute. Darkness crept slowly over them in an almost amoebic flow. Their new clothes were all hunter’s garb, everything high-tech insulated. She’d never hunted in her life and had felt odd purchasing the stuff at a camping supply store near one of Charlotte’s upscale shopping malls.

  They nestled at the base of a stout evergreen on a bed of pine needles. She was munching a Twix bar. Candy was her weakness. One drawer of her desk in Atlanta was filled with temptations.

  She was still unsure they were doing the right thing.

  “We should call the Secret Service,” she said in a hushed whisper.

  “You always so negative?”

  “You shouldn’t dismiss the idea so quickly.”

  “This is my fight.”

  “Seems to be mine now, too.”

  “Herbert Rowland is in trouble. There’s no way he’d believe us if we knocked on the front door and told him. Neither would the Secret Service. We have nothing for proof.”

  “Except the guy in the house today.”

  “What guy? Who is he? Tell me what we know.”

  She couldn’t.

  “We’re going to have to catch him in the act,” he said.

  “Because you think he killed Millicent?”

  “He did.”

  “How about you tell me what’s really happening here. Millicent has nothing to do with a dead admiral, Zachary Alexander, or Operation Highjump. This is more than some personal vendetta.”

  “Ramsey is the common denominator. You know that.”

  “Actually, all I know is I have agents who are trained to do this kind of thing, yet here I am freezing my ass off with a White House staffer who has a chip on his shoulder.”

  She finished her candy bar.

  “You like those things?” he asked.

  “That’s not going to work.”

  “Because I think they’re terrible. Now, Baby Ruth. That’s a candy bar.”

  She reached into her shopping bag and found one. “I agree.”

  He plucked it from her grasp. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  She grinned. Davis was both irritating and intriguing.

  “Why have you never married?” she asked.

  “How do you know that I haven’t?”

  “It’s obvious.”

  He seemed to appreciate her perception. “Never became an issue.”

  She wondered whose fault that had been.

  “I work,” he said, as he chewed the candy. “And I didn’t want the pain.”

  That she could understand. Her own marriage had been a disaster, ending in a long estrangement, followed by her husband’s suicide fifteen years ago. A long time to be alone. But Edwin Davis might be one of the few who understood.

  “There’s more than pain,” she said. “Lots of joy there, too.”

  “But there’s always pain. That’s the problem.”

  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,” s
he 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 the 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.”

  Kan
e 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.”