by Steve Berry
“I’ll start with Millicent Senn.”
“And what would you know of her?”
“Young naval officer, assigned to your staff in Brussels. You had a relationship with her. And then, lo and behold, she becomes pregnant and a few weeks later is dead. Failed heart. The Belgians ruled it natural. Case closed.”
This woman was well informed. He worried that his silence might be more explicit than any response, so he said, “No one would believe that.”
“Maybe not now, but it makes for a great story. The kind of thing the press loves. Especially Extra and Inside Edition. Did you know that Millicent’s father still believes, to this day, she was murdered? He’d gladly go on camera. Her brother—who’s a lawyer, by the way—also has doubts. Of course, they don’t know anything about you or your relationship with her. They also don’t know that you liked to beat the crap out of her. What do you think they, the Belgian authorities, or the press would do with all that?”
She had him, and knew it.
“This is no setup, Langford. It’s not about getting you to admit anything. I don’t need your admissions. It’s about looking after me. I. Want. Money.”
“And, for the sake of argument, if I agreed, what would stop you from shaking me down again?”
“Not one thing,” she said through clenched teeth.
He allowed himself a grin, then a chuckle. “You are a devil.”
She returned the compliment. “Seems we’re perfect for each other.”
He liked the amicable note in her voice. Never had he suspected that so much larceny coursed through her veins. Aatos Kane would like nothing more than to rid himself of his obligation, and even the hint of scandal would offer the senator a perfect opportunity. I’m willing to hold up my end, Kane would say, you’re the one with problems.
And there’d be nothing he could do.
It would take reporters less than an hour to verify that his tour of duty in Brussels coincided with Millicent’s. Edwin Davis had also been there and that romantic fool had a thing for Millicent. He’d known that at the time, but could not have cared less. Davis had been weak and unimportant. Not anymore. God knew where he was. He’d heard nothing about Davis in several days. But the woman sitting across from him was a different matter. She had a loaded gun, aimed straight at him, and knew where to shoot.
“Okay. I’ll pay.”
She reached into her jacket pocket and removed a sheet of paper. “Here’s the bank and routing number. Make the payment, in full, within the next hour.”
She tossed it on the desk.
He did not move.
She smiled. “Don’t look so glum.”
He said nothing.
“Tell you what,” she said, “To show you my good faith, and my willingness to work with you on a permanent basis, once the payment is confirmed I’m going to give you something else you really want.”
She stood from the chair.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Me. I’m yours tomorrow night. So long as I get paid in the next hour.”
SEVENTY-NINE
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 15
12:50 AM
Dorothea was not happy. The plane bumped its way through rough air like a truck on a pitted dirt road, which brought back memories of her childhood and trips to the lodge with her father. They’d loved the outdoors. While Christl shunned guns and hunting, she’d loved both. It had been something she and her father had shared. Unfortunately, they’d only enjoyed a few seasons. She was ten when he died. Or, better put, when he never came back home again. And that sad thought scooped out another crater in the pit of her stomach, deepening an emptiness that seemed to never abate.
It was after her father’s disappearance that she and Christl had drifted farther apart. Different friends, interests, tastes. Lives. How did two people who sprang from the same egg grow so distant?
Only one explanation made sense.
Their mother.
For decades she’d forced them to compete. And those battles had bred resentment. Dislike came next. An easy jump from there to hatred.
She sat strapped into her seat, bundled in her gear. Malone had been right about the clothing. This misery wouldn’t end for at least another five hours. The crew had distributed box lunches when they’d boarded. Cheese roll, cookies, chocolate bar, a drumstick, and an apple. No way she could eat a bite. Just the thought of food made her sick. She pressed her parka tight into the seat’s web backings and tried to be comfortable. An hour ago Malone had disappeared up into the flight deck. Henn and Werner were asleep, but Christl seemed wide awake.
Perhaps she was anxious, too.
This flight was the worst of her life, and not just from the discomfort. They were flying to their destiny. Was something there? If so, was it good or bad?
After suiting up, they’d each packed their insulated rucksacks. She’d brought only a change of clothes, a toothbrush, some toiletries, and an automatic pistol. Her mother had sneaked it to her in Ossau. Since this was not a commercial flight, there’d been no security inspections. Though she resented allowing her mother to make yet another decision for her, she felt better with the gun nearby.
Christl’s head turned.
Their eyes met in the half-light.
What a bitter piece of irony that they were here, on this plane, thrust together. Would speaking to her do any good?
She decided to try.
She unbuckled her harness and rose from the seat. She crossed the narrow aisle and sat beside her sister. “We have to stop this,” she said over the noise.
“I plan to. Once we find what I know is there.” Christl’s expression was as cold as the plane’s interior.
She tried again. “None of that matters.”
“Not to you. It never did. All you cared about was passing the wealth to your precious Georg.”
The words pierced her, and she wanted to know, “Why did you resent him?”
“He was all that I could never give, dear sister.”
She caught the bitterness as conflicting emotions collided inside her. Dorothea had wept by Georg’s coffin for two days trying, with everything she possessed, to release his memory. Christl had come to the funeral, but left quickly. Not once had her sister offered any condolences.
Nothing.
Georg’s death had signaled a turning point in Dorothea’s life. Everything changed. Her marriage, her family. And, most important, herself. She did not like what she’d become, but had readily accepted anger and resentment as substitutes for a child she’d adored.
“You’re barren?” she asked.
“You care?”
“Does Mother know you can’t have children?” she asked.
“What does it matter? This isn’t about children anymore. It’s about the Oberhauser legacy. What this family believed.”
She could see that this effort was futile. The gulf between them was far too wide to either fill or bridge.
She started to rise.
Christl cracked her hand down on her wrist. “So I didn’t say I was sorry when he died. At least you know what it is like to have a child.”
The pettiness of the comment stunned her. “God help any child you would have had. You could have never cared for one. You’re incapable of that kind of love.”
“Seems you didn’t do such a great job. Yours is dead.”
Damn her.
Her right hand formed a fist and her arm powered upward, smashing into Christl’s face.
Ramsey sat at his desk and prepared himself for what lay ahead. Surely more interviews and press attention. Admiral Sylvian’s funeral was tomorrow, at Arlington National Cemetery, and he reminded himself to make mention of that sad event to every interviewer. Focus on the fallen comrade. Be humble that you’ve been chosen to follow in his footsteps. Regret the loss of a fellow flag officer. The funeral would be a full-dress affair with honors. The military certainly knew how to bury its own. They’d done it often enough.
H
is cell phone rang. An international number. Germany. About time.
“Good evening, Admiral,” a gravelly woman’s voice said.
“Frau Oberhauser. I’ve been expecting your call.”
“And how did you know I would call?”
“Because you’re an anxious old bitch who likes to be in control.”
She chuckled. “That I am. Your men did a good job. Malone is dead.”
“I prefer to wait till they report that fact to me.”
“I’m afraid that’s going to be impossible. They’re dead, as well.”
“Then you’re the one with a problem. I have to have confirmation.”
“Have you heard anything about Malone in the last twelve hours? Any reports of what he might be doing?”
No, he hadn’t.
“I saw him die.”
“Then we have nothing more to say.”
“Except you owe me an answer to my question. Why did my husband never come back?”
What the hell? Tell her. “The submarine malfunctioned.”
“And the crew? My husband?”
“They didn’t survive.”
Silence.
Finally, she said, “You saw the submarine and the crew?”
“I did.”
“Tell me what you saw.”
“You don’t want to know.”
Another long pause, then, “Why was it necessary to cover this up?”
“The submarine was top secret. Its mission was secret. There was no choice at the time. We couldn’t risk the Soviets finding it. Only eleven men aboard, so it was easy to conceal the facts.”
“And you left them there?”
“Your husband agreed to those conditions. He knew the risks.”
“And you Americans say Germans are heartless.”
“We’re practical, Frau Oberhauser. We protect the world, you folks tried to conquer it. Your husband signed on for a dangerous mission. His idea, actually. He’s not the first to make that choice.”
He was hoping this would be the last he heard from her. He didn’t need her aggravation.
“Good-bye, Admiral. I hope you rot in hell.”
He heard the emotion in her voice, but could not care less. “I wish only the same for you.”
And he clicked off.
He made a mental note to change his cell phone number. That way he’d never have to talk to that crazy German again.
Charlie Smith loved a challenge. Ramsey had delegated him a fifth target, but made clear that the job had to be done today. Absolutely nothing could arouse suspicions. A clean kill, no aftertaste. Usually that would not be a problem. But he was working with no file, only a few scant facts from Ramsey, and a twelve-hour window. If successful, Ramsey had promised an impressive bonus. Enough to pay for Bailey Mill, with plenty left over for remodeling and furnishing.
He was back from Asheville, at his apartment, the first time home in a couple of months. He’d managed a few hours’ sleep and was ready for what lay ahead. He heard a soft chime from the kitchen table and checked his cell phone ID. Not a number he recognized, though it was a Washington-area exchange. Perhaps it was Ramsey calling from an anonymous phone. He’d do that sometimes. Theman was eaten up by paranoia.
He answered.
“I’m calling for Charlie Smith,” a woman’s voice said.
The use of that name brought his senses alert. He used that label only with Ramsey. “You got the wrong number.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Afraid so.”
“I wouldn’t hang up,” she said. “What I have to say could make or break your life.”
“Like I said, lady, wrong number.”
“You killed Douglas Scofield.”
A cold chill swept through him as realization dawned. “You were there, with the guy?”
“Not me, but they work for me. I know all about you, Charlie.”
He said nothing, but her having the phone number and knowing his alias were major problems. Actually, catastrophic. “What do you want?”
“Your ass.”
He chuckled.
“But I’m willing to trade yours for someone else’s.”
“Let me guess. Ramsey?”
“You are a bright guy.”
“I don’t suppose you plan to tell me who you are?”
“Sure. Unlike you, I don’t live a false life.”
“Then who the hell are you?”
“Diane McCoy. Deputy national security adviser to the president of the United States.”
EIGHTY
Malone heard someone scream. He was on the flight deck talking with the crew and rushed to the aft doorway, staring down into the tunnel-like interior of the LC-130. Dorothea was across the aisle, beside Christl, who was struggling to free herself from the harness and shrieking. Blood gushed from Christl’s nose and stained her parka. Werner and Henn had come awake and were unbuckling themselves.
With open palms, Malone slid down the ladder’s railings and rushed toward the mêlée. Henn had managed to yank Dorothea away.
“You crazy bitch,” Christl screamed. “What are you doing?”
Werner took hold of Dorothea. Malone dropped back and watched.
“She slugged me,” Christl said, dabbing her sleeve onto her nose.
Malone found a towel on one of the steel racks and tossed it to her.
“I should kill you,” Dorothea spit out. “You don’t deserve to live.”
“You see,” Christl yelled. “This is what I mean. She’s nuts. Totally nuts. Crazy as hell.”
“What are you doing?” Werner asked his wife. “What brought this on?”
“She hated Georg,” Dorothea said, struggling in Werner’s grasp.
Christl stood, facing her sister.
Werner released his hold on Dorothea and allowed the two lionesses to appraise each other, both seemingly trying to calculate a hidden purpose in the other. Malone watched the women, dressed in identical thick gear, their faces identical, but their minds so different.
“You weren’t even there when we finally buried him,” Dorothea said. “All the rest of us stayed, but not you.”
“I hate funerals.”
“I hate you.”
Christl turned toward Malone, the towel pressed to her nose. He grabbed her gaze and quickly saw the threat in her eyes. Before he could react, she dropped the towel, whirled, and smacked Dorothea in the face, sending her sister careering back into Werner.
Christl cocked her fist, readying another blow.
Malone caught her wrist. “You owed her one. That’s all.”
Her whole countenance had darkened and a fiery gaze told him that this was none of his business.
She wrenched her arm free and snatched the towel from the floor.
Werner helped Dorothea down. Henn just watched, like always, never saying a word.
“Okay, enough prizefighting,” Malone said. “I suggest all of you get some sleep. We have less than five hours to go and I plan to hit the ground running when we land. Anybody who bitches or can’t keep up stays at the base.”
Smith sat in his kitchen and stared at the phone lying on the table. He’d doubted the caller’s identity so she’d given him a contact number, then hung up. He grabbed the unit and punched in the number. Three rings and a pleasant voice informed him that he’d dialed the White House and wanted to know how to direct his call.
“Office of the National Security Adviser,” he said in a weak voice.
She connected him.
“Took you long enough, Charlie,” a woman said. The same voice. “Satisfied?”
“What do you want?”
“To tell you something.”
“I’m listening.”
“Ramsey intends to terminate his relationship with you. He has big plans, major plans, and they don’t include you being around to possibly interfere with them.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“That’s what I’d say, too, Charlie. B
ut I’ll make it easy for you. You listen and I’ll talk. That way if you think you’re being recorded it won’t matter. Sound like a plan?”
“If you got the time, go ahead.”
“You’re Ramsey’s personal problem solver. He’s used you for years. Pays you well. In the last few days you’ve been a busy guy. Jacksonville. Charlotte. Asheville. Am I getting warm, Charlie? Do you want me to name names?”
“You can say whatever you want.”
“Now Ramsey has given you a new assignment.” She paused. “Me. And let me guess. Has to be done today. That makes sense since I shook him down yesterday. He tell you about that, Charlie?”
He did not reply.
“No, I didn’t think so. See, he’s making plans and they don’t include you. But I don’t plan to end up like the others. That’s why we’re talking. Oh, and by the way, if I was your enemy the Secret Service would be at your door right now and we’d have this talk in a private place, just you and me and somebody big and strong.”
“That thought had already occurred to me.”
“I knew you’d be reasonable. And just so you understand that I really do know what I’m talking about, let me tell you about three offshore accounts you have, the ones Ramsey makes his deposits into.” She rattled off the banks and account numbers, even passwords, two of which he’d changed only a week ago. “None of those accounts is really private, Charlie. You just have to know where and how to look. Unfortunately for you, I can seize those accounts in an instant. But to show you my good faith, I haven’t touched them.”
Okay. She was the real deal. “What do you want?”
“Like I said, Ramsey has decided that you have to go. He’s made a deal with a senator, one that doesn’t include you. Since you’re practically dead anyway, what with no identity, few roots, no family, how hard would it be for you to permanently disappear? Nobody would ever miss you. That’s sad, Charlie.”
But true.
“So I have a better idea,” she said.
Ramsey was so close to his goal. Everything had gone as planned. Only one obstacle remained. Diane McCoy.
He still sat at his desk, a swig of chilled whiskey resting nearby. He thought about what he’d told Isabel Oberhauser. About the submarine. What he’d retrieved from NR-1A and kept ever since.