The Charlemagne Pursuit

SEVEN

MALONE STOOD AT THE SECOND-STORY WINDOW AND GAZED down across the busy street. The woman from the cable car, Panya, calmly walked toward a snowy parking lot that fronted a McDonald's. The restaurant was tucked into a Bavarian-style building, only a discreet sign with the golden arches and a few window decorations announcing its presence.

He released his hold on the lace curtains. What was she doing here? Maybe she'd fled? Or had the police simply let her go?

He grabbed his leather jacket and his gloves and stuffed the gun he'd taken from her into one of the pockets. He left the hotel room and descended to ground level, careful in his movements but casual in his gait.

Outside, the air was like the inside of a chest freezer. His rental car was parked a few feet from the door. Across the street he saw the dark Peugeot the woman had walked toward, preparing to exit the lot, its right blinker flashing.

He hopped into his car and followed.

WILKERSON DOWNED THE REST OF HIS BEER. HE'D SEEN CURTAINS in the second-floor window part as the woman from the cable car strolled before the restaurant.

Timing truly was everything.

He'd thought Malone could not be steered.

But he'd been wrong.

STEPHANIE WAS PISSED. "I'M NOT GOING TO BE PARTY TO THIS," she told Edwin Davis. "I'm calling Cotton back. Fire me, I don't give a damn."

"I'm not here in an official capacity."

She appraised him with suspicious eyes. "The president doesn't know?"

He shook his head. "This one's personal."

"You need to tell me why."

She'd only dealt directly with Davis once, and he hadn't been forthcoming, actually placing her life in jeopardy. But in the end she'd learned that this man was no fool. He possessed two doctorates-one in American history, the other in international relations-along with superb organizational skills. Always courteous. Folksy. Similar to President Daniels himself. She'd seen how people tended to underestimate him, herself included. Three secretaries of state had used him to whip their ailing departments into line. Now he worked for the White House, helping the administration through the last three years of its final term.

Yet this career bureaucrat was now openly breaking rules.

"I thought I was the only maverick here," she said.

"You shouldn't have let that file go to Malone. But once I learned that you had, I decided I needed some help."

"For what?"

"A debt I owe."

"And now you're in a position to repay it? With your White House power and credentials."

"Something like that."

She sighed. "What do you want me to do?"

"Malone's right. We need to find out about Holden and its officers. If any of them are still around, they need to be located."

MALONE FOLLOWED THE PEUGEOT. SAWTOOTHED MOUNTAINS sliced with streaks of snow stretched skyward on both sides of the highway. He was driving north, out of Garmisch, on an ascending zigzag route. Tall, black-trunked trees formed a stately aisle, the picturesque scene clearly something Baedeker would have reveled in describing. Winter this far north brought darkness quick-not even five o'clock and daylight had already waned.

He grabbed an area map from the passenger seat and noted that ahead lay the Alpine valley of the Ammergebirge, which stretched for miles from the base of Ettaler Mandl, a respectable peak at over five thousand feet. A small village dotted the map near Ettaler Mandl, and he slowed as both he and the Peugeot ahead entered its outskirts.

He watched as his quarry abruptly wheeled into a parking space before a massive white-fronted building, two-storied, ruled by symmetry, populated with gothic windows. A towering dome rose from its center, flanked by two smaller towers, all topped with blackened copper and flooded with light.

A bronze placard announced ETTAL MONASTERY.

The woman exited the car and disappeared into an arched portal.

He parked and followed.

The air was noticeably colder than in Garmisch, confirming a rise in altitude. He should have brought a thicker coat, but he hated the things. The stereotypical image of a spy in a trench coat was laughable. Way too restrictive. He stuffed gloved hands into his jacket pockets and curled his right fingers around the gun. Snow crunched beneath his feet as he followed a concrete walk into a cloister the size of a football field, surrounded by more baroque buildings. The woman was hustling up an inclined path toward the doors of a church.

People were both entering and exiting.

He trotted to catch up, dashing through a silence broken only by soles slapping the frozen pavement and the call of a distant cuckoo.

He entered the church through a gothic portal topped by an elaborate tympanum displaying biblical scenes. His eyes were immediately drawn to dome frescoes of what appeared to be heaven. The interior walls were alive with stucco statues, cherubs, and complex patterns, all in brilliant shades of gold, pink, gray, and green, that flickered as if in constant movement. He'd seen rococo churches before, most so over-laden that the building became lost, but not here. The decorations seemed subordinate to architecture.

People milled about. Some sat in pews. The woman he was following walked fifty feet to his right, beyond the pulpit, heading for another sculpted tympanum.

She entered and closed a heavy wooden door behind her.

He stopped to consider his options.

No choice.

He moved toward the door and grasped its iron handle. His right fingers stayed tightened around the gun, but he kept the weapon tucked into his pocket.

He twisted the latch and eased open the door.

The room beyond was smaller, with a vaulted ceiling supported by slender white columns. More rococo ornamentation sprang from the walls, but it was not as bold. Perhaps this was a sacristy. A couple of tall cupboards and two tables accounted for the only furnishings. Standing beside one of the tables were two women-the one from the cable car and another.

"Welcome, Herr Malone," the new woman said. "I've been waiting."