The Charlemagne Pursuit

THIRTY-SEVEN

CHARLIE SMITH WAITED IN THE CLOSET. HE'D RUSHED INSIDE, without thinking, relieved to find it deep and cluttered, and positioned himself behind the hanging clothes, leaving the door open in the hope it would deter anyone from looking inside. He'd heard the bedroom door open and the two visitors enter, but it sounded like his ruse had worked. They'd decided to leave and he listened as the front door opened, then closed.

This was the closest he'd ever come to detection. He hadn't expected any interruptions. Who were they? Should Ramsey be informed? No, the admiral had made it clear that there should be no contact until all three jobs were done.

He crept to the window and watched as the car that had been parked out front disappeared down the graveled lane toward the highway-two passengers inside. He prided himself on meticulous preparation. His files were a wealth of useful information. People were generally creatures of habit. Even those who insisted they had no habits practiced predictability. Herbert Rowland was a simple man, enjoying retirement with his wife beside a lake, minding his own business, going about his daily routine. He'd return home later, probably with some take-out food, inject himself, enjoy his dinner, then drink himself to sleep, never realizing that this would be his last day on earth.

He shook his head as the fear left him. An odd way to earn a living, but somebody had to do it.

He needed to do something for the next few hours, so he decided to drive back to town and see a couple of movies. Maybe enjoy a steak for dinner. He loved Ruth's Chris and had already learned there were two in Charlotte.

Later, he'd return.

STEPHANIE SAT SILENT IN THE CAR AS DAVIS DROVE DOWN A LEAF-and-gravel drive back toward the highway. She glanced back and saw that the house was nowhere in sight. Thick woods surrounded them. She'd given Davis the keys and asked him to drive. Luckily he hadn't questioned her, just slid behind the wheel.

"Stop," she said.

Rock crunched as the tires crept to a halt.

"What's your cell phone number?"

He told her and she punched the digits into hers. She reached for the door handle. "Drive back to the highway and head off a few miles. Pull over somewhere out of sight and wait till I call you."

"What are you doing?"

"Playing a hunch."

MALONE WALKED WITH CHRISTL ACROSS AACHEN'S MARKTPLATZ. Six PM was approaching, and the sun hung low in a sky bruised by storm clouds. The weather had worsened and an icy northern wind sliced into him.

She led them toward the chapel through the old palace courtyard, a rectangular cobbled plaza twice as long as it was wide, lined with bare trees draped with snow. The surrounding buildings blocked the wind, but not the cold. Children ran about, shouting and talking in a joyous confusion. Aachen's Christmas market filled the courtyard. Every German town seemed to have one. He wondered what his son Gary was doing-now out of school for the holidays. He needed to call. He did at least every couple of days.

He watched as children rushed toward a new attraction. A droopy-faced man sporting a purple fur robe and a long tapered cap who reminded him of Father Time.

"St. Nicholas," Christl said. "Our Santa Claus."

"Quite different."

He used the happy disorder to confirm that Hatchet Face had followed, staying back, casually examining the booths near a towering blue spruce with electric candles and tiny lights balancing on swaying boughs. He caught the scent of boiling vinegar-gluhwein. A stall selling the spiced port stood a few yards away, gloved patrons cradling steaming brown mugs.

He pointed to another merchant selling what looked like cookies. "What are they?"

"A local delicacy. Aachener printen. Spicy gingerbread."

"Let's have one."

She threw him a quizzical look.

"What?" he said. "I like sweets."

They walked over and he bought two of the flat, hard cookies.

He tried a bite. "Not bad."

He'd thought the gesture would help relax Hatchet Face and he was pleased to see that it had. The man remained casual and confident.

Darkness would be here soon. He'd bought tickets for the chapel's six PM tour earlier when they'd stopped to obtain the guidebooks. He was going to have to improvise. He'd learned from his reading that the chapel was a UNESCO world cultural monument. Burglarizing or damaging it would be a serious offense. But after the monastery in Portugal and St. Mark's in Venice, what did it matter?

He seemed to specialize in vandalizing world treasures.

DOROTHEA ENTERED THE MUNICH TRAIN STATION. THE HAUPTBAHNHOF was conveniently located in the city center, about two kilometers from the Marienplatz. Trains from all over Europe arrived and departed by the hour, along with local connections to the underground lines, trams, and buses. The station was not a historical masterpiece-more a modern combination of steel, glass, and concrete. Clocks throughout the interior noted that it was a little past six PM.

What was happening?

Apparently Admiral Langford Ramsey wanted Wilkerson dead, but she needed Wilkerson.

Actually, she liked him.

She glanced around and spotted the tourist office. A quick survey of the benches offered no sight of Wilkerson, but through the crowd she spotted a man.

His tall frame sported a three-button glen-plaid suit and leather oxfords beneath a wool coat. A dull Burberry scarf draped his neck. He possessed a handsome face with child-like features, though age had clearly added some furrows and valleys. His steel-gray eyes, encircled by wire-framed glasses, appraised her with a penetrating gaze.

Her husband.

Werner Lindauer.

He stepped close. "Guten abend, Dorothea."

She did not know what to say. Their marriage was entering its twenty-third year, a union that, in the beginning, had been productive. But over the last decade she'd come to resent his perpetual whining and lack of appreciation for anything beyond his own self-interest. His only saving point had been his devotion to Georg, their son. But Georg's death five years ago had chiseled a wide divide between them. Werner had been devastated and so had she, but they'd handled their grief differently. She withdrew into herself. He became angry. Ever since she'd simply led her life and allowed him to lead his, neither answering to the other.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I came for you."

She was not in the mood for his antics. Occasionally, he'd tried to be a man, more a passing fancy than a fundamental change.

She wanted to know, "How did you know I'd be here?"

"Captain Sterling Wilkerson told me."

Her shock evolved into dread.

"Interesting man," he said. "A gun to his head and he simply can't stop talking."

"What have you done?" she asked, not concealing her astonishment.

His gaze zeroed in. "A great deal, Dorothea. We have a train to catch."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

Werner seemed to restrain a surge of annoyance. Perhaps he hadn't contemplated that reaction. But his lips relaxed into a reassuring smile that actually frightened her. "Then you shall lose your mother's challenge with your dear sister. Does that not matter?"

She'd had no idea he was aware of what was happening. She'd told him nothing. Clearly, though, her husband was well informed.

Finally, she asked, "Where are we going?"

"To see our son."

STEPHANIE WATCHED AS EDWIN DAVIS DROVE OFF. SHE THEN switched her phone to silent, buttoned her coat, and plunged into the woods. Old-growth pines and bare hardwoods, many vined with mistletoe, stretched overhead. Winter had only minimally thinned the underbrush. She advanced the hundred yards back toward the house slowly, a heavy layer of pine needles silencing her steps.

She'd seen the hanger moving. No doubt. But was it a mistake by her, or by the person she'd sensed inside?

She repeatedly told her agents to trust their instincts. Nothing worked better than common sense. Cotton Malone had been a master of that. She wondered what he was doing right now. He hadn't called back concerning the information on Zachary Alexander or the rest of Holden's command staff.

Had he found trouble, too?

The house appeared, its form broken by the many trees that stood in between. She crouched behind one of the trunks.

Everyone, no matter how good they may be, eventually screwed up. The trick was being there when it happened. If Davis was to be believed, Zachary Alexander and David Sylvian had been murdered by someone expertly able to mask those deaths. And though he hadn't voiced his reservations, she'd detected them when Davis told her how Millicent had died.

Her heart stopped.

Davis was playing a hunch, too.

The hanger.

It had moved.

And she'd wisely not revealed what she'd seen in the bedroom, deciding to see if Herbert Rowland was, in fact, next.

The door to the house opened and a short, thin man wearing jeans and boots stepped out.

He hesitated, then his darkened form trotted away, disappearing into the woods. Her heart raced. Son of a bitch.

What had he done in there?

She found her phone and dialed Davis's number, which was answered after one ring.

"You were right," she told him.

"About what?"

"Like you said with Langford Ramsey. Everything. Absolutely everything."