The Charlemagne Pursuit

FORTY-SEVEN

STEPHANIE AND EDWIN DAVIS HUDDLED IN THE WOODS FIFTY yards from Herbert Rowland's lakeside house. Rowland had arrived home fifteen minutes ago and hurried inside carrying a pizza box. He'd immediately come back out and retrieved three logs from the woodpile. Smoke now puffed from a rough-hacked stone chimney. She wished they had a fire.

They'd spent a couple of hours during the afternoon buying additional winter clothes, thick gloves, and wool caps. They'd also stocked up on snacks and drink, then returned and assumed a position where they could safely watch the house. Davis doubted the killer would return before nightfall, but wanted to be in position just in case.

"He's in for the night," Davis said, keeping his voice to a whisper.

Though the trees blocked a breeze, the dry air was chilling by the minute. Darkness crept slowly over them in an almost amoebic flow. Their new clothes were all hunter's garb, everything high-tech insulated. She'd never hunted in her life and had felt odd purchasing the stuff at a camping supply store near one of Charlotte's upscale shopping malls.

They nestled at the base of a stout evergreen on a bed of pine needles. She was munching a Twix bar. Candy was her weakness. One drawer of her desk in Atlanta was filled with temptations.

She was still unsure they were doing the right thing.

"We should call the Secret Service," she said in a hushed whisper.

"You always so negative?"

"You shouldn't dismiss the idea so quickly."

"This is my fight."

"Seems to be mine now, too."

"Herbert Rowland is in trouble. There's no way he'd believe us if we knocked on the front door and told him. Neither would the Secret Service. We have nothing for proof."

"Except the guy in the house today."

"What guy? Who is he? Tell me what we know."

She couldn't.

"We're going to have to catch him in the act," he said.

"Because you think he killed Millicent?"

"He did."

"How about you tell me what's really happening here. Millicent has nothing to do with a dead admiral, Zachary Alexander, or Operation Highjump. This is more than some personal vendetta."

"Ramsey is the common denominator. You know that."

"Actually, all I know is I have agents who are trained to do this kind of thing, yet here I am freezing my ass off with a White House staffer who has a chip on his shoulder."

She finished her candy bar.

"You like those things?" he asked.

"That's not going to work."

"Because I think they're terrible. Now, Baby Ruth. That's a candy bar."

She reached into her shopping bag and found one. "I agree."

He plucked it from her grasp. "Don't mind if I do."

She grinned. Davis was both irritating and intriguing.

"Why have you never married?" she asked.

"How do you know that I haven't?"

"It's obvious."

He seemed to appreciate her perception. "Never became an issue."

She wondered whose fault that had been.

"I work," he said, as he chewed the candy. "And I didn't want the pain."

That she could understand. Her own marriage had been a disaster, ending in a long estrangement, followed by her husband's suicide fifteen years ago. A long time to be alone. But Edwin Davis might be one of the few who understood.

"There's more than pain," she said. "Lots of joy there, too."

"But there's always pain. That's the problem."

She nestled closer to the tree.

"After Millicent died," Davis said, "I was assigned to London. I found a cat one day. Sickly. Pregnant. I took her to the vet who saved her, but not the kittens. After, I took the cat back home. Good animal. Never once would she scratch you. Kind. Loving. I enjoyed having her. Then one day she up and died. It hurt. Real bad. I decided then and there that things I love tend to die. So. No more for me."

"Sounds fatalistic."

"More realistic."

Her cell phone vibrated against her chest. She checked the display-Atlanta calling-and clicked on. After listening a moment, she said, "Connect him."

"It's Cotton," she said to Davis. "Time he knows what's happening."

But Davis just kept eating, staring at the house.

"Stephanie," Malone said in her ear. "Did you find what I need to know?"

"Things have become complicated." And, shielding her mouth, she told him some of what had happened. Then she asked, "The file?"

"Probably gone."

And she listened as he recounted what had happened in Germany.

"What are you doing now?" Malone asked her.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Considering the dumb-ass things I've done the past two days, I could believe anything."

She told him.

"I'd say it's not so stupid," Malone said. "I'm standing in the freezing cold myself, outside a Carolingian church. Davis is right. That guy will be back."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Somebody is awfully interested in Blazek, or NR-1A, or whatever the damn sub should be called." Malone's annoyance seemed to have given way to uncertainty. "If the White House said naval intelligence inquired, that means Ramsey's involved. We're on parallel courses, Stephanie."

"I got a guy here munching on a Baby Ruth who says the same thing. I hear you two have talked."

"Anytime somebody saves my ass, I'm grateful."

She recalled central Asia, too, but needed to know, "Where's your path leading, Cotton?"

"Good question. I'll get back to you. Careful there."

"Same to you."

MALONE CLICKED OFF THE PHONE. HE STOOD AT THE FAR END OF the courtyard that accommodated the Christmas market, at the high point of the slope, near Aachen's town hall, facing the chapel a hundred yards off. The snowy building glowed a phosphorescent green. More snow fell in silence, but at least the wind had died.

He checked his watch. Nearly eleven thirty.

All of the booths were shut tight, the swirling currents of voices and bodies silent and still until tomorrow. Only a few people milled about. Christl had not followed him from the chapel and, after speaking with Stephanie, he was even more confused.

Brightness of God.

The term had to be relevant to Einhard's time. Something with a clear meaning. Did the words still possess any significance?

Easy way to find out.

He punched SAFARI on his iPhone, connected to the Internet, and accessed Google. He typed BRIGHTNESS OF GOD EINHARD and pressed SEARCH.

The screen flickered, then displayed the first twenty-five hits.

The top one answered his question.