The Charlemagne Pursuit cm-4

by Steve Berry

  "Let's be honest, okay? If I had told you that I'd already made the connection between the will and the inscription, would you have even come to Aachen?"

  Probably not. But he said nothing.

  "I didn't think so," she said, reading his face.

  "You people take a lot of foolish risks."

  "There's much at stake. Mother wanted me to tell you something, not in front of Dorothea or Werner."

  He'd been wondering when Isabel would make good on her promise of damn good information. "Okay, who's been trying to kill me?"

  "A man named Langford Ramsey. She actually spoke with him. He sent the men who came after us in Garmisch, at Reichshoffen, and in Aachen. He also sent those today. He wants you dead. He's head of your naval intelligence. Mother deceived him into thinking she was his ally."

  "Now, there's something novel. Put my life at risk to save it."

  "She's trying to help you."

  "By telling Ramsey I'd be here today?"

  She nodded. "We staged that hostage scenario with their cooperation so they'd both be killed. We didn't anticipate the other two coming. They were supposed to stay on the outside. Ulrich thinks the shots drew them." She hesitated. "Cotton, I'm glad you're here. And safe. I wanted you to know that."

  He felt like a man walking to the gallows after tying the noose himself.

  "Where's your shirt?" she asked.

  "You live alone, you do your own laundry."

  She added a friendly smile which sweetened the otherwise tense atmosphere. "I've lived alone all my adult life."

  "Thought you were married once?"

  "We never actually lived together. One of those errors in judgment that was quickly rectified. We had a few great weekends, but that was about all. How long were you married?"

  "Almost twenty years."

  "Children?"

  "A son."

  "Does he carry your name?"

  "His name is Gary."

  A sense of peace mingled with the silence.

  She wore denim jeans, a stone-colored shirt and a navy cardigan. He could still see her tied to the column. Of course, women lying to him was nothing new. His ex-wife lied for years about Gary's parentage. Stephanie lied repeatedly, when necessary. Even his mother, a reservoir of locked emotions, a woman who rarely showed any feeling, lied to him about his father. To her, that memory was perfect. But he knew it wasn't. He desperately wanted to know the man. Not a myth, or a legend, or a memory. Just the man.

  He was tired. "It's time for bed."

  She circled to the lamp that burned beside the bed. He'd switched off the bath light when he'd answered the door so, when she pulled the chain and extinguished the bulb, the room was plunged into darkness.

  "I agree," she said.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  DOROTHEA WATCHED FROM HER CRACKED-OPEN DOOR AS HER sister entered Cotton Malone's room. She'd seen her mother speak with Christl after dinner and wondered what had been said. She'd seen Ulrich leave and knew what task he'd been delegated. She wondered what her role would be. Apparently it was to make amends with her husband, as they'd been given a room together with one small bed. When she'd inquired to the proprietor about another he'd told her there were none.

  "It's not that bad," Werner said to her.

  "Depends on a person's definition of bad."

  She actually found the situation amusing. They were both behaving like two adolescents on their first date. In one sense their predicament seemed comical, in another tragic. The tight confines made it impossible for her to escape the familiar miasma of his aftershave, his pipe tobacco, and the cloves from the gum he loved to chew. And the smells constantly reminded her that he was not one of the myriad men she'd enjoyed of late.

  "This is too much, Werner. And far too fast."

  "I don't think you have a whole lot of choice."

  He stood near the window, arms clasped behind him. She was still perplexed by his actions in the church. "Did you think that gunman would actually shoot me?"

  "Things changed when I shot the other one. He was angry and he could have done anything."

  "You killed that man so easily."

  He shook his head. "Not easily, but it had to be done. Not all that different from bringing down a stag."

  "I never realized you had that inside you."

  "Over the past few days I've realized a lot of things about myself."

  "Those men in the church were fools, thinking only about getting paid." Like the woman in the abbey, she thought. "There was absolutely no reason for them to trust us, yet they did."

  The corners of his lips turned down. "Why are you avoiding the obvious?"

  "I don't think this is the place or time to debate our personal life."

  His eyebrow raised in disbelief. "There's no better time. We're about to make some irreversible decisions."

  Their distance these past few years had dulled her once perfect ability to know for certain when he was deceiving her. She'd for so long ignored him-simply allowed him to have his way. Now she cursed her indifference. "What do you want, Werner?"

  "The same things you want. Money, power, security. Your birth right."

  "That's mine, not yours."

  "Interesting, your birthright. Your grandfather was a Nazi. A man who adored Adolf Hitler."

  "He was no Nazi," she declared.

  "He just helped their evil along. Made it easier for them to slaughter people."

  "That's preposterous."

  "Those ridiculous theories about Aryans? Our supposed heritage? That we were some sort of special race that came from a special place? Himmler loved that garbage. It fed right into the Nazis' murderous propaganda."

  Disturbing thoughts swirled through her mind. Things her mother had told her, things she'd heard as a child. Her grandfather's admitted right-wing philosophies. His refusal to ever speak ill of the Third Reich. Her father's insistence that Germany was no better off postwarthan prewar, a divided Germany worse than anything Hitler ever did. Her mother was right. The Oberhauser family history needed to stay buried.

  "You must tread lightly here," Werner whispered.

  There was something unsettling about his tone. What did he know?

  "Perhaps it eases your conscience to think me a fool," he said. "Maybe it justifies your rejection of our marriage, and me."

  She cautioned herself that he was an expert at baiting her.

  "But I'm no fool."

  She was curious. "What do you know of Christl?"

  He pointed at the door. "I know she's in there with Malone. You understand what that means?"

  "Tell me."

  "She's forging an alliance. Malone is connected to the Americans. Your mother chose her allies carefully-Malone can make things happen when we need them to happen. How else could we get to Antarctica? Christl is doing your mother's bidding."

  He was right. "Tell me, Werner, are you enjoying the possibility of my failure?"

  "If I were, I wouldn't be here. I'd simply let you fail."

  Something in his desultory tone triggered alarm. He definitely knew more than he was saying and she hated his hedging.

  She repressed a sudden shudder at the realization that this man, more stranger than husband, attracted her.

  "When you killed the man at the lodge," he asked, "did you feel anything?"

  "Relief." The word slipped out from between clenched teeth.

  He stood impassive, seemingly considering the admission. "We must prevail, Dorothea. If that means cooperating with your mother, and Christl, so be it. We cannot allow your sister to dominate this quest."

  "You and Mother have been working together for some time, haven't you?"

  "She misses Georg as much as we do. He was this family's future. Now its entire existence is in doubt. There are no more Oberhausers."

  She caught something in his tone and saw it in his eye. What he really wanted. "You can't be serious?" she asked.

  "You're only forty-eight. Childbirth is still possible.
"

  Werner came close and gently kissed her on the neck.

  She slapped him across the face.

  He laughed. "Intense emotion. Violence. So you are human, after all."

  Beads of sweat formed on her forehead, though the room was not warm. She was not going to listen to him anymore.

  She headed for the door.

  He lunged forward, grabbed her arm, and spun her around.

  "You're not going to walk away from me. Not this time."

  "Let go." But it was a weak command. "You are a despicable bastard. The sight of you makes me sick."

  "Your mother has made clear that if we conceive she will give it all to you." He wrenched her close. "Hear me, woman. Everything to you. Christl has no need for children or a husband. But maybe the same offer was made to her, as well? Where is she right now?"

  He was close. In her face.

  "Use your brain. Your mother has pitted the two of you against each other to learn what happened to her husband. But above all, she wants this family to continue. The Oberhausers have money, status, and assets. What they lack is heirs."

  She freed herself from his grip. He was right. Christl was with Ma lone. And her mother could never be trusted. Had the same offer of an heir been made to her?

  "We're ahead of her," he said. "Our child would be legitimate."

  She hated herself. But the son of a bitch made sense.

  "Shall we get started?" he asked.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  ASHEVILLE, 5:00 PM

  STEPHANIE WAS A LITTLE DISCONCERTED. DAVIS HAD DECIDED they'd stay the night and reserved one room for them both.

  "I'm not ordinarily this kind of girl," she said to him as he opened the door. "Going to a hotel on the first date."

  "I don't know. I heard you're easy."

  She popped him on the back of the head. "You wish."

  He faced her. "Here we are at a romantic four-star hotel. Last night we had a great date huddled in the freezing cold, then getting shot at. We're really bonding."

  She smiled. "Don't remind me. And by the way, love your subtlety with Scofield. Worked great. He warmed right up to you."

  "He's an arrogant, self-absorbed know-it-all."

  "Who was there in 1971, and knows more than you and me."

  He plopped down onto a bright floral bedspread. The whole room looked like something out of a Southern Living magazine. Fine furnishings, elegant curtains, decor inspired by English and French manor houses. She actually would like to savor the deep tub. She hadn't bathed since yesterday morning in Atlanta. Is this what her agents routinely experienced? Wasn't she supposed to be in charge?

  "Premier king room," he said. "It's all they had available. Its rate is way over government per diem but what the hell. You're worth it."

  She sank into one of the upholstered club chairs and propped her feet on a matching footstool. "If you can handle all this togetherness, I can, too. I have a feeling we're not going to get much sleep anyway."

  "He's here," Davis said. "I know it."

  She wasn't so sure, but she could not deny a bad feeling swirling around in her stomach.

  "Scofield is in the Wharton Suite on the sixth floor. He gets it every year," Davis said.

  "Desk clerk let all that slip?"

  He nodded. "She doesn't like Scofield, either."

  Davis fished the conference pamphlet from his pocket. "He's leading a tour of the Biltmore mansion in a little while. Then, tomorrow morning, he's going boar hunting."

  "If our man's here, that's plenty of opportunities for him to make a move, not counting the time tonight in the hotel room."

  She watched Davis' face. Usually its features never gave away a thing, but the mask had faded. He was anxious. She felt a dark reluctance mingling with an intense curiosity, so she asked, "What are you going to do when you finally find him?"

  "Kill him."

  "That would be murder."

  "Maybe. But I doubt our man will go down without a fight."

  "You loved her that much?"

  "Men shouldn't hit women."

  She wondered who he was talking to. Her? Millicent? Ramsey?

  "I couldn't do anything before," he said. "I can now." His face clouded over once again, belying all emotion. "Now tell me what the president didn't want me to know."

  She'd been waiting for him to ask. "It's about your co-worker." She told him where Diane McCoy had gone. "He trusts you, Edwin. More than you know." She saw he caught what she hadn't said. Don't let him down.

  "I won't disappoint him."

  "You can't kill this man, Edwin. We need him alive, to get Ramsey. Otherwise the real problem walks."

  "I know." Defeat laced his voice.

  He stood.

  "We need to go."

  They'd stopped by the registration desk and signed up for the remainder of the conference before coming upstairs, obtaining two tickets for the candlelight tour.

  "We have to stay close to Scofield," he said. "Whether he likes it or not."

  CHARLIE SMITH ENTERED THE BILTMORE MANSION, FOLLOWING the private tour inside. When he'd registered for the Ancient Mysteries Revealed Conference under another name, he'd been presented a ticket for the event. A little quick reading in the inn's gift shop informed him that from early November until New Year's the mansion offered so-called magical evenings where visitors could enjoy the chateau filled with candlelight, blazing fireplaces, holiday decorations, and live musical performances. Entry times were reserved, and tonight's was extra special since it was the last tour of the day, open only for conference attendees.

  They'd been ferried from the inn in two Biltmore buses-about eighty people, he estimated. He was dressed like the others, winter colors, wool coat, dark shoes. On the trip over he'd struck up a conversation about Star Trek with another attendee. They'd discussed which series they liked best, he arguing that Enterprise was by far superior, though his listener had preferred Voyager.

  "Everyone," Scofield was saying, as they stood in the frigid night before the main doors, "follow me. You're in for a real treat."

  The crowd entered through an elaborate iron grille. He'd read that each room inside would be decorated for Christmas, as George Vanderbilt had done, starting in 1885 when the estate was first opened.

  He was looking forward to the spectacles.

  Both the house.

  And his own.

  MALONE CAME AWAKE. CHRISTL SLEPT BESIDE HIM, HER NAKED body against his. He glanced at his watch. 12:35 AM. Another day-Friday, December 14-had started.

  He'd been asleep two hours.

  A warm pulse of satisfaction flowed through him.

  He hadn't done that in awhile.

  Afterward, rest had come in a no-man's-land of a twilight where detailed images roamed his restless mind.

  Like the framed drawing hanging one floor below.

  Of the church, from 1772.

  Odd the way a solution had materialized, the answer laid out in his head like an open-faced hand of solitaire. It had happened that way two years ago. At Cassiopeia Vitt's chateau. He thought about Cassiopeia. Her visits of late had been few and far between, and she was God knew where. In Aachen he'd thought about calling her for help, but decided this fight was his alone. He lay still and wondered about the myriad choices life offered. The swiftness of his decision regarding Christl's advances worked his nerves.

  But at least something more had come of it.

  Charlemagne's pursuit.

  He now knew the end.

  SIXTY-SIX

  ASHEVILLE

  STEPHANIE AND DAVIS FOLLOWED THE TOUR INTO BILTMORE'S grand entrance hall amid soaring walls and limestone arches. To her right, in a glass-roofed winter garden, a parade of white poinsettias encircled a marble-and-bronze fountain. The warm air smelled of fresh greenery and cinnamon.

  A woman on the bus ride over had told them that the candlelight tour was billed as an old-fashioned festival of lights, decorations in a grand regal style, a Victorian picture
postcard come to life. And true to the billing, a choir sung carols from some far-off room. With no coat check Stephanie left hers unbuttoned as they lingered at the back of the group, staying out of the way of Scofield, who seemed to relish his role as host.

  "We have the house to ourselves," the professor said. "This is a tradition for the conference. Two hundred fifty rooms, thirty-four bedrooms, forty-three baths, sixty-five fireplaces, three kitchens, and an indoor swimming pool. Amazing I remember all that." He laughed at his own quip. "I'll escort you through and point out some of the interesting tidbits. We'll finish back here and then you're free to roam for another half hour or so before the buses return us to the inn." He paused. "Shall we?"

  Scofield led the crowd into a long gallery, maybe ninety feet, lined with silk and wool tapestries that he explained were woven in Belgium around 1530.

  They visited the gorgeous library with its twenty-three thousand books and Venetian ceiling, then the music room with a spectacular Durer print. Finally, they entered an imposing banquet hall with more Flemish tapestries, a pipe organ, and a massive oak dining table that seated-she counted-sixty-four. Candlelight, firelight, and twinkling tree lights provided all of the illumination.

  "The largest room in the house," Scofield announced in the banquet hall. "Seventy-two feet long, forty-two feet wide, crowned seventy feet up by a barrel vault."

  An enormous Douglas fir, which stretched halfway to the ceiling, was trimmed with toys, ornaments, dried flowers, gold beads, angels, velvet, and lace. Festive music from an organ filled the hall with yuletide cheer.

  She noticed Davis retreating toward the dining table, so she drifted his way and whispered, "What is it?"

  He pointed to the triple fireplace, flanked with armor, as if admiring it, and said to her, "There's a guy, short and thin, navy chinos, canvas shirt, barn coat with a corduroy collar. Behind us."

  She knew not to turn and look, so she concentrated on the fireplace and its high-relief overmantel, which looked like something from a Greek temple.

  "He's been watching Scofield."

  "Everybody's been doing that."