The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  “Like something from Dickens.”

  “They made it seem like an English country village. Now it’s shops and cafés.”

  “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 movement. 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.

  “He’s in there,” he heard a man shout.

  He stared out the doorway.

  A second gunman was now in the cloister, on the short side, passing the church entrance, rounding the corner, coming straight toward him. Apparently Ulrich Henn had not been successful in stopping him.

  The man raised his gun and fired straight at Malone.

  He ducked as a bullet found the wall.

  Another round ricocheted past, straight through the doorway, from the other gunman, across the cloister. His refuge contained no windows and the walls and roof were unbroken. What had seemed like a sure bet had suddenly turned into a serious problem.

  No way out.

  He was trapped.

  FIFTY-NINE

  ASHEVILLE, 12:15 PM

  Stephanie admired the Inn on Biltmore Estate, an expansive fieldstone-and-stucco building that crowned a grassy promontory, overlooking the estate’s famed winery. Vehicle access was restricted to estate guests, but they’d stopped at the main gate and bought a general pass to tour the grounds, which included the hotel.

  She avoided a busy valet service and parked in one of the terraced paved lots, then they climbed a landscaped incline to the main entrance, where uniformed doormen greeted them with smiles. The inside was reminiscent of what it might have been like to visit the Vanderbilts a hundred years ago. Light-paneled walls finished with a dull honey-stained gloss, marble flooring, elegant art, and rich floral patterns in the drapes and upholstery. Greenery overflowed from stone planters and warmed an airy décor that o
pened upward to the next floor, a coffered ceiling twenty feet overhead. The views beyond the plate-glass doors and windows, past a veranda dotted with rockers, were of the Pisgah National Forest and the Smoky Mountains.

  She listened for a moment to a pianist playing near a flagstone hearth. A stairway led down to what sounded and smelled like the dining room, a steady procession of patrons coming and going. They inquired at the concierge desk and were directed through the lobby, past the pianist, to a window-lined corridor that led to meeting rooms and a conference center where they found the registration desk for Ancient Mysteries Revealed.

  Davis plucked a program from a pile and studied the day’s schedule. “Scofield’s not talking this afternoon.”

  A perky young woman with coal-black hair heard him and said, “The professor speaks tomorrow. Today are info sessions.”

  “Do you know where Dr. Scofield is?” Stephanie asked.

  “He was around here earlier, but I haven’t seen him in a while.” She paused. “You folks from the press, too?”

  She caught the qualifier. “There have been others?”

  The woman nodded. “A little while ago. Some man. He wanted to see Scofield.”

  “And what did you tell him?” Davis asked.

  She shrugged. “Same thing. Haven’t a clue.”

  Stephanie decided to study one of the schedules and noted the next session, set to begin at one PM. “Pleiadian Wisdom for These Challenging Times.” She read its summary.

  Suzanne Johnson is a world-acclaimed trance channeler and author of several bestselling books. Join Suzanne and the nonphysical, time-traveling, mind-boggling Pleiadians as she channels them for a stimulating two hours of mind-expanding questions and sometimes tough but always positive, life-enhancing answers. Subjects of Pleiadian interest include: the acceleration of energy, astrology, secret political and economic agendas, hidden planetary history, god games, symbols, mind control, blossoming psychic abilities, time line healing, personal self-empowerment, and much more.

  The rest of the afternoon featured a host of more oddities focusing on crop circles, the world’s impending end, sacred sites, and one expansive session on the rise and fall of civilization, including binary motion, change in electromagnetic waves, and the impact of catastrophic events, with an emphasis on the precession of the equinoxes.

  She shook her head. Like watching paint dry. What a waste of time.

  Davis thanked the woman and retreated from the table with a pamphlet still in hand. “Nobody from the press is here to interview him.”

  She wasn’t so sure. “I know what you’re thinking, but our guy wouldn’t be that obvious.”

  “He may be in a hurry.”

  “He may not be anywhere near here.”

  Davis hastened back toward the main lobby.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “It’s lunchtime. Let’s see if Scofield eats.”

  Ramsey hurried back to his office and waited for Hovey, who arrived a few moments later and reported, “McCoy immediately left the grounds.”

  He was furious. “I want everything we have on her.”

  His aide nodded. “That was a solo job,” Hovey said. “You know that.”

  “I agree, but she feels the need to record me. That’s a problem.”

  Hovey was aware of his boss’s efforts to secure the Joint Chiefs position, just not the particulars. Ramsey’s long-standing relationship with Charlie Smith was his alone. His aide had already been promised that he’d be going to the Pentagon with him—more than enough incentive for Hovey to actively participate. Lucky for him, every captain wanted to be an admiral.

  “Get me that info on her now,” he ordered again.

  Hovey left his office. He picked up the phone and dialed Charlie Smith. Four rings and the call was answered.

  “Where are you?”

  “Having a delicious meal.”

  He didn’t want any details, but he knew what was coming.

  “The dining room is lovely. A large room with a fireplace, elegantly decorated. Soft lighting, relaxed appeal. And the service. Superb. My water glass has yet to get half empty and the bread basket stays full. The manager even wandered by a minute ago and made sure I was enjoying the meal.”

  “Charlie, shut up.”

  “Touchy today.”

  “Listen to me. I assume you’re doing as I asked.”

  “As always.”

  “I need you back here tomorrow, so make it quick.”

  “They just brought a dessert sampler of crème brûlée and chocolate mousse. You really should visit here.”

  He didn’t want to hear another word. “Charlie, just do it and get back by tomorrow afternoon.”

  Smith clicked off his phone and turned his attention back to his dessert. Across the main dining room of the Inn on Biltmore Estate, Dr. Douglas Scofield sat at a table, with three others, eating his own lunch.

  Stephanie descended the carpeted stairway and entered the inn’s spacious dining room, stopping at the hostess’ podium. Another flagstone hearth accommodated a crackling fire. Most of the white-clothed tables were occupied. She noticed fine china, crystal glasses, brass chandeliers, and lots of maroon, gold, green, and beige fabrics. One hundred percent southern in look and feel. Davis was still holding the conference pamphlet and she knew what he was doing. Looking for a face to match Douglas Scofield’s prominent picture.

  She saw him first, at a window table with three others. Then Davis caught sight. She grabbed his sleeve and shook her head. “Not this time. We can’t make a scene.”

  “I’m not going to.”

  “He has people with him. Let’s get a table and wait until he’s done, then approach him.”

  “We don’t have time for that.”

  “And where do we have to be?”

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m anxious to watch the channeling with the Pleiadians at one.”

  She smiled. “You’re impossible.”

  “But I’m growing on you.”

  She decided to surrender and released her grip.

  Davis wove his way ahead and she followed.

  They approached the table. Davis said, “Dr. Scofield, I was wondering if I might have a word with you.”

  Scofield appeared to be in his midsixties, with a broad nose, a bald pate, and teeth that looked too straight and too white to be real. His fleshy face betrayed a testiness that his dark eyes immediately confirmed.

  “I’m having lunch at the moment.”

  Davis’ face stayed cordial. “I need to speak with you. It’s quite important.”

  Scofield laid his fork down. “As you can see, I am engaged with these people. I understand you’re here at the conference and want some time with me, but I have to budget that carefully.”

  “Why is that?”

  She didn’t like the sound of the question. Davis had apparently also caught the I’m important subtext to Scofield’s explanation.

  The professor sighed and pointed to the pamphlet Davis held. “I do this every year, so that I can be available for those interested in my research. I realize you want to discuss things, and that’s fine. Once I’m done here, perhaps we could talk upstairs, near the piano?”

  Irritation remained in his tone. The other three diners likewise seemed annoyed. One them said, “We’ve been waiting for this lunch all year.”

  “And you’ll have it,” Davis said. “As soon as I’m done.”

  “Who are you?” Scofield asked.

  “Name’s Raymond Dyals, retired navy.”

  She watched as recognition clicked in Scofield.

  “Okay, Mr. Dyals, and by the way you must have discovered the fountain of youth.”

  “You’ll be surprised what I’ve discovered.”

  Scofield’s eyes flickered. “Then you and I definitely need to talk.”

  SIXTY

  OSSAU

  Malone decided to act. He swung the gun around and fired two rounds across the cloiste
r garden. He had no idea of the assailant’s position, but the message was clear.

  He was armed.

  A bullet bisected the doorway and sent him reeling back.

  He determined its origin.

  From the second gunman, on his side of the gallery, to his right.

  He stared up. The gabled roof was held aloft by trusses formed from rough-hewn beams stretching the room’s width. A jumble of broken rocks and debris littered the floor and lay piled against one of the decaying walls. He stuffed the gun into his jacket pocket and scrambled atop the largest chunks, which provided him two new feet of height. He leaped up, grabbed the cold beam, swung his legs upward, and straddled the timber like a horse. He quickly wiggled his way closer to the wall, only now he was ten feet above the doorway. He sprang to his feet, crouched, and balanced on the beam, regripping the gun, his muscles like bundles of tightly bound cord.

  Shots rang out from the cloister. Several.

  Perhaps Henn had joined the fray?

  He heard another impact, similar to when Werner tackled Dark in the church, along with grunts, breathing, and fighting. He couldn’t see anything except the stones on the floor below, cast in dimness thanks to only bleak light.

  A shadow appeared.

  He readied himself.

  Two shots were fired and the man rushed into the room.

  Malone leaped from the beam, crashing into the attacker, quickly rolling off and readying himself for a fight.

  The man was hefty and broad-shouldered, the body hard, as if there were metal under the skin. He’d quickly recoiled from the assault and sprang to his feet—without the gun, which had slipped from his grasp.

  Malone raked the side of his automatic across the man’s face, sending him into the wall, dazed. He leveled the gun and prepared to take his prisoner, but a shot exploded behind him and the man dropped to the rubble.

  He whirled.

  Henn stood, gun aimed, just outside the doorway.

  Christl appeared.