by Steve Berry
McCoy wore a long wool coat, open in front, slacks, shirt, and boots beneath. Her hands were empty and the rhythmic thump, thump of her leather heels matched what they'd heard below.
"Do you have any idea," McCoy asked, "how much trouble you two have caused? Prancing around. Interfering in things that totally don't concern you."
Davis aimed his gun at McCoy. "Like I care. You're a traitor."
Stephanie did not move.
"Now, that isn't nice," a new voice said. Male.
Stephanie turned.
A short, wiry man with a round face appeared in the opposite parlor with an HK53 pointed at them. She knew the assault rifle well. Forty rounds, rapid fire, messy. She also realized who held it.
Charlie Smith.
MALONE STUFFED THE CAP INTO HIS COAT POCKET AND RAN. A series of extended step-downs, twenty or so feet long, steadily lowered the street to a semicircular plaza that faced a tall colonnaded building. Statues and sculptures ringed its perimeter, displayed atop more square pillars.
Christl stood among the columns on the building's portico, a gun lowered at her side. He'd had her pack searched, but not her person. To do that would have alerted everyone that he wasn't as dumb as they apparently thought him to be, and he had not wanted to lose the advantage of being underestimated.
"What's happening?" he asked, winded.
"It's Werner. Henn killed him."
He heard Dorothea gasp. "Why?"
"Think, dear sister. Who gives Ulrich commands?"
"Mother?" Dorothea asked in answer.
No time for a family debate. "Where's Henn?"
"We split up. I came back just as he shot Werner. I found my gun and fired, but Henn fled."
"What are you doing with a gun?" he asked.
"I'd say it's a good thing I brought it."
"Where's Werner?" Dorothea asked.
Christl motioned. "In there."
Dorothea bounded up the steps. He followed. They entered the building through a door wrapped in what appeared to be ornamented tin. Inside was a long hall with a high ceiling, the floor and walls tiled in blue and gold. Basins, their bottoms paved with well-worn pebbles, dotted the floor, one after the other, a stone balustrade on either side. Unglazed window openings were cased in bronze lattice and mosaics sheathed the walls. Landscapes, animals, young men wearing what appeared to be kilts and women in flounced skirts, some carrying jars, others bowls, filling the basins. Outside he'd noticed what appeared to be copper topping the pediment and silver adorning the columns. Now he spotted bronze cauldrons and silver fittings. Metallurgy had clearly been an art form to this society. The ceiling was quartz, a wide arch supported by a center beam that ran the length of the rectangle. Drains in the sides and bottoms of the basins confirmed that they had once held water. This was a bathhouse, he concluded.
Werner lay sprawled in one of the basins.
Dorothea ran to him.
"Touching scene, isn't it?" Christl said. "The good, faithful wife lamenting the loss of her precious husband."
"Give me your gun," he demanded.
She threw him a cutting glare but handed over the weapon. He noticed it was the same make and model as Dorothea's. Isabel had apparently made sure the daughters' odds were even. He removed the magazine and pocketed both.
He approached Dorothea and saw that Werner had been shot with a single round to the head.
"I fired twice at Henn," Christl said. She pointed to the end of the hall, past a low-stepped platform, at another doorway. "He escaped there."
Malone slipped the rucksack off his shoulders, unzipped the center compartment, and found a 9mm automatic. When Taperell had searched the others' belongings and found Dorothea's gun, he'd wisely asked the Aussie to stash a weapon in his own pack.
"Different rules for you?" Christl asked.
He ignored her.
Dorothea stood. "I want Ulrich."
He heard the hate. "Why would he kill Werner?"
"It's Mother. Why else?" Dorothea screamed, her words echoing through the bathhouse. "She killed Sterling Wilkerson just to keep him from me. Now she's killed Werner."
Christl seemed to sense his ignorance. "Wilkerson was an American agent that the Ramsey man sent to spy on us. Dorothea's latest lover. Ulrich shot him in Germany."
He agreed, they needed to locate Henn.
"I can help," Christl said. "Two would be better than one. And I know Ulrich. How he thinks."
He was certain of that observation, so he reinserted a magazine from his pocket and handed the gun back to her.
"I want mine, too," Dorothea said.
"She came armed?" Christl asked him.
He nodded his head. "You two are just alike."
DOROTHEA FELT VULNERABLE. CHRISTL WAS ARMED AND MALONE flatly refused her request for a gun.
"Why give her an advantage?" she asked. "Are you an idiot?"
"Your husband is dead," Malone reminded her.
She glanced down at Werner. "He hasn't been my husband in a long time." Her words were remorseful. Sad. Just as she felt. "But that doesn't mean I wanted him dead." She glared at Christl. "Not like this."
"This quest is proving costly." Malone paused. "For you both."
"Grandfather was right," Christl said. "History books will be rewritten, all thanks to the Oberhausers. It's our job to see that happens. For the family."
She imagined that her father and grandfather may have thought and said the exact same thing. But she wanted to know, "What about Henn?"
"There's no telling what Mother ordered him to do," Christl said. "My guess is he's going to kill me and Malone." She motioned at Dorothea with the gun. "You were to be the sole survivor."
"You're a liar," Dorothea hissed.
"Am I? Then where's Ulrich? Why did he flee when I confronted him? Why kill Werner?"
Dorothea could provide no answers.
"Arguing is pointless," Malone said. "Let's go get him and be done with this."
MALONE PASSED THROUGH A DOORWAY AND EXITED THE BATH hall. A series of rooms opened off a long corridor, spaces that appeared to be either storage facilities or workrooms, since they were less elaborate in color and design and devoid of murals. The ceiling remained quartz, its refracted light still illuminating the way. Christl advanced with him, Dorothea trailing behind them.
They came to a series of tiny rooms that may have been a dressing area, then more storage and work spaces. The same ceramic pipes ran along the floor, against the wall, doubling as a baseboard.
They found an intersection.
"I'll go that way," Christl said.
He agreed. "We'll take the other route."
Christl moved right, then disappeared around a corner into the cold gray dimness.
"You know she's a lying bitch," Dorothea whispered.
He kept his attention on where Christl had gone and said, "You think?"
EIGHTY-NINE
CHARLIE SMITH HAD THE SITUATION UNDER CONTROL. DIANE McCoy had briefed him well, telling him to wait in the barn until both of their visitors were inside, then quietly assume a position here, in the front parlor. McCoy would then enter the house and announce her presence, then they would deal with the problem.
"Drop the guns," he ordered.
Metal clattered across the wood floor.
Smith wanted to know, "You were the two in Charlotte?"
The woman nodded. Stephanie Nelle. Magellan Billet. Justice Department. McCoy had told him their names and positions.
"How'd you know I'd be at Rowland's place?" He was genuinely curious.
"You're predictable, Charlie," Nelle said.
He doubted that. Still, they had been there. Twice.
"I've known about you for a long time," Edwin Davis said to him. "Not your name, or what you look like, or where you live. But I knew you were out there, working for Ramsey."
"You like my little show at Biltmore?"
"You're quite the pro," Nelle said. "That round went to you."
&nb
sp; "I take pride in my work. Unfortunately, I'm between jobs, and employers, at the moment."
He stepped forward a few feet, into the foyer.
"You realize," Nelle said, "that people know we're here."
He chuckled. "That's not what she told me." He motioned toward McCoy. "She knows the president is suspicious of her. He's the one who sent you here-to trap her. Did Daniels mention me by any chance?"
Nelle gave a surprised look.
"I didn't think so. Just supposed to be you three. Come to talk it out?"
"That's what you told him?" Nelle asked McCoy.
"It's the truth. Daniels sent you to get me. The president can't afford for word of this to get out in public. Too many questions. That's why you're the whole damn army."
McCoy paused.
"Like I said, the Lone Ranger and Tonto."
MALONE HAD NO IDEA WHERE THE MAZE OF CORRIDORS LED. HE had no intention of doing what he'd told Christl, so he said to Dorothea, "Come with me."
They retraced their steps and reentered the bath hall.
Three other doorways opened from the outer walls. He handed her the flashlight. "See what's in those rooms."
She gave him a puzzled look, then he saw realization dawn inside her. She was quick, he'd give her that. The first one revealed nothing, but at the second doorway she motioned for him to come.
He approached and saw Ulrich Henn, dead on the floor.
"The fourth shot," he said. "Though it was surely the first one Christl fired, since he represented the greatest threat. Especially after the note your mother sent. She figured you three were in league to get her."
"The bitch," Dorothea muttered. "She killed them both."
"And she means to kill you, too."
"And you?"
He shrugged. "I can't imagine why I'd be allowed to leave."
He'd let his guard down last night, caught up in the moment. Danger and adrenaline had that effect. Sex had always been a way to ease his fears-which had gotten him into trouble years ago, when he first started with the Magellan Billet.
But not this time. He stared back out into the bath hall, deciding what to do next. Lots happening fast. He needed- Something smashed into the side of his head.
Pain jolted through him. The hall winked in and out.
Another blow. Harder.
His arms trembled. His fists clenched.
Then his mind lost all awareness.
STEPHANIE ASSESSED THEIR SITUATION. DANIELS HAD SENT THEM here with precious little information. But the intelligence business was all about improvising. Time to practice what she preached.
"Ramsey was lucky to have you," she said. "Admiral Sylvian's death was a work of art."
"I thought so," Smith said.
"Bottomed out his blood pressure. Ingenious-"
"That how you killed Millicent Senn?" Davis interrupted. "Black woman. Navy lieutenant in Brussels. Fifteen years ago."
Smith seemed to be searching for the memory. "Yeah. Same way. But that was a different time, different continent."
"Same me," Davis said.
"You were there?"
Davis nodded.
"What was she to you?"
"More important, what was she to Ramsey?"
"Got me. I never asked. Just did what he paid me to do."
"Did Ramsey pay you to kill him?" she asked.
Smith chuckled. "If I hadn't, I would have been dead soon. Whatever he was planning, he didn't want me around, so I shot him." Smith motioned with the rifle. "He's back there in the bedroom, a nice clean hole through his no-good brain."
"Got a little surprise for you, Charlie," Stephanie said.
He threw her a quizzical look.
"That body ain't there."
DOROTHEA SLAMMED THE HEAVY STEEL FLASHLIGHT INTO THE side of Malone's skull a final time.
He shrank to the floor.
She grabbed his weapon.
This was going to end between her and Christl.
Right now.
STEPHANIE SAW THAT SMITH WAS PUZZLED.
"What did it do? Walk away?"
"Go see."
He jammed the assault rifle into her face. "You lead the way."
She sucked a deep breath and steeled her nerves.
"One of you pick up those guns and toss them out the window," Smith said, keeping his eyes locked on her.
Davis did as instructed.
Smith lowered the rifle. "Okay, let's all have a look. You three first."
They crept down the corridor and entered the bedroom.
Nothing there but a bare window frame, the open wall panel, and a bloody hand.
"You're being played," Stephanie said. "By her."
McCoy reeled back from the accusation. "I paid you ten million dollars."
Smith didn't seem to care. "Where's the friggin' body?"
DOROTHEA PRESSED AHEAD. SHE KNEW CHRISTL WAS WAITING FOR her. Their entire lives had been spent in competition. One trying to outdo the other. Georg had been the one thing she'd managed that Christl had never matched.
And she'd always wondered why.
Now she knew.
She shook all troubling thoughts from her mind and concentrated on the murky scene before her. She'd hunted at night, stalking prey through the Bavarian woods under a silvery moon, waiting for the right moment to kill. At best, her sister was a double murderess. Everything she'd ever believed about her had now been confirmed. Nobody would blame her for shooting the bitch.
The hallway ended ten feet ahead.
Two doorways-one left, one right.
She fought a spasm of panic.
Which one?
NINETY
MALONE OPENED HIS EYES AND KNEW WHAT HAD HAPPENED. HE rubbed a throbbing knot on the side of his head. Damn. Dorothea had no idea what she was doing.
He heaved himself up and caught a wave of nausea.
Crap-she may have cracked his skull.
He hesitated and allowed the frigid air to clear his brain.
Think. Focus. He'd set this whole thing up. But it wasn't playing out as expected, so he shook himself free of unwanted speculation and found Dorothea's gun in his pocket.
He'd confiscated Christl's, identical in make and model. When he'd returned it to her, though, he'd taken advantage of the situation to load the blank magazine that had originally come from Dorothea's. Now he popped the fully loaded magazine into the remaining Heckler Koch USP, forcing his foggy mind to concentrate, his fingers to move.
Then he staggered for the doorway.
STEPHANIE WAS IMPROVISING, USING WHATEVER SHE COULD THINK of to keep Charlie Smith off balance. Diane McCoy had played her part to perfection. Daniels had briefed them on how he'd sent McCoy to Ramsey, first to become a co-conspirator, then as an adversary, all to keep Ramsey in constant motion. "A bee can't sting you if it's flying," the president had observed. Daniels had also explained that when told about Millicent Senn and what had happened in Brussels years ago, McCoy had immediately volunteered. For the deception to have any chance at success, it required someone at her level, since Ramsey would never have dealt with, nor believed, subordinates. Once the president learned about Charlie Smith, McCoy had easily manipulated him, too. Smith was a vain, greedy soul, too accustomed to success. Daniels had informed them that Ramsey was dead-shot by Smith-and that Smith would appear, but unfortunately that was all the intel offered. McCoy confronting them had also been part of the script. What would happen after that was anybody's guess.
"Back to the front," Smith ordered, gesturing with the gun.
They walked to the foyer between the two front parlors.
"You have quite a problem," Stephanie said.
"I'd say you're the one with a problem."
"Really? You going to kill two deputy national security advisers and a high-level Justice Department agent? I don't think you want the kind of heat that'll bring. Shooting Ramsey? Who cares? We certainly don't. Good riddance. Nobody's going to bother you on that one. We're a diff
erent story."
She saw that her reasoning had struck home.
"You've always been so careful," Stephanie said. "That's your trademark. No traces. No evidence. Shooting us would be totally out of character. And besides, we may want to hire you. After all, you do good work."
Smith chuckled. "Right. I doubt you'd use my services. Let's get this straight. I came to help her"-he gestured to McCoy-"tend to a problem. She did pay me ten million, and let me kill Ramsey, so that buys her a favor. She wanted you two gone. But I can see that was a bad idea. I think the wise thing is for me to leave."
"Tell me about Millicent," Davis said.
Stephanie had wondered why he'd been so quiet.
"Why is she so important?" Smith asked.
"She just is. I'd like to know about her before you go."
DOROTHEA EASED FORWARD TOWARD THE TWO DOORWAYS. SHE pressed herself close to the corridor's right-side wall and watched for any change in the shadows ahead.
Nothing.
She came to the doorway's edge and quickly stole a glance inside the room to her right. Maybe ten meters square, lit from above. Nothing inside except a figure lying propped against the far wall.
A man wrapped in a blanket, wearing an orange nylon one-piece jumper. Dimly illuminated, like an old black-and-white photo, he sat cross-legged, his head inclined left, and stared at her with eyes that did not blink.
She was drawn toward him.
He was young, maybe late twenties, with dusty brown hair and a thin angular face. He'd died where he sat, perfectly preserved. She almost expected him to speak. He wore no coat, but his orange cap was the same from the one outside. US Navy. NR-1A.
Her father, during times when they'd hunted, had always cautioned her about frostbite. The body, he'd said, would sacrifice fingers, toes, hands, noses, ears, chins, and cheeks to keep blood flowing to vital organs. But if the cold persisted, and no relief was found, the lungs eventually hemorrhaged and the heart stopped. Death was slow, gradual, and painless. But the long conscious fight against it was the real agony. Especially when nothing could be done to stop it.
Who was this soul?
She caught a noise, behind her.
She whirled.
Someone appeared in the room across the hall. Twenty meters away. A black form, framed by another doorway.