The Charlemagne Pursuit (43 page)

SEVENTY-EIGHT

6:30
PM

R
AMSEY REENTERED HIS OFFICE, FINISHED WITH THE LAST INTERVIEW
of the day. Diane McCoy sat inside, where he’d told Hovey to have her wait. He closed the door. “Okay, what’s so important?”

She’d been electronically swept and was clean of listening devices. He knew his office was secure, so he sat with confidence.

“I want more,” she told him.

She wore a gun-check wool tweed suit in calming shades of brown and camel, with a black turtleneck underneath. A tad casual and expensive looking for a White House staffer, but stylish. Her coat lay across another of the chairs.

“More of what?” he asked.

“There’s a man who goes by the name Charles C. Smith Jr. He works for you, and has for a long time. You pay him well, albeit through a variety of false names and numbered accounts. He’s your killer, the one who took care of Admiral Sylvian and a whole group of others.”

He was amazed, but stayed composed. “Any proof?”

She laughed. “Like I’m going to tell you. Just suffice it to say I know, and that’s what matters.” She grinned. “You may well be the first person in US military history to have actually murdered his way to the top. Damn, Langford, you truly are an ambitious SOB.”

He needed to know. “What do you want?”

“You have your appointment. That’s what
you
wanted. I’m sure that’s not all, but that’s all for the moment. So far the reaction has been good to your selection, so you seem on your way.”

He agreed. Any serious problems would quickly surface once the public knew he was the president’s choice. That’s when anonymous phone calls to the press would start and the politics of destruction would take over. After eight hours, nothing had yet surfaced, but she was right. He had murdered his way to the top so, thanks to Charlie Smith, anyone who could possibly be a problem was already dead.

Which reminded him. Where was Smith?

He’d been so busy with interviews, he’d forgotten all about him. He’d told the idiot to take care of the professor and return by nightfall, and the sun was now setting.

“You’ve been a busy girl,” he said.

“I’ve been a smart girl. I have access to information networks you could only dream about.”

He didn’t doubt that. “And you plan to hurt me?”

“I plan to wreck the living hell out of you.”

“Unless what?”

A ripple of amused laughter drifted across her face. This bitch was definitely enjoying herself.

“This is all about you, Langford.”

He shrugged. “You want to be a part of what happens after Daniels? I’ll make that happen.”

“Do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck?”

He grinned. “Now you sound like Daniels.”

“That’s because he says that to me at least twice a week. Usually I deserve it, since I am playing him. He’s smart, I’ll give him that. But I’m no fool. I want a damn lot more.”

He had to hear her out, but a strange uneasiness accompanied his forced patience.

“I want money.”

“How much?”

“Twenty million dollars.”

“How did you arrive at that figure?”

“I can live comfortably off the interest for the rest of my life. I did the math.”

An almost sexual enjoyment danced in her eyes.

“I assume you would want this offshore, in a blind account, accessible only to you?”

“Just like Charles C. Smith Jr. With a few more stipulations, but those can come later.”

He tried to remain calm. “What brought this on?”

“You’re going to screw me. I know it, you know it. I tried to get you on tape, but you were too smart. So I thought,
Lay it on the table. Tell him what I know. Make a deal. Get something, up front.
Call it a down payment. An investment. That way you’ll be more hesitant to shaft me later. I’ll be bought and paid for, ready to use.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then you’ll end up in prison or, better yet, maybe I’ll find Charles C. Smith Jr. and see what he has to say.”

He said nothing.

“Or maybe I’ll just dangle you out in the press.”

“And what will you tell the reporters?”

“I’ll start with Millicent Senn.”

“And what would you know of her?”

“Young naval officer, assigned to your staff in Brussels. You had a relationship with her. And then, lo and behold, she becomes pregnant and a few weeks later is dead. Failed heart. The Belgians ruled it natural. Case closed.”

This woman was well informed. He worried that his silence might be more explicit than any response, so he said, “No one would believe that.”

“Maybe not now, but it makes for a great story. The kind of thing the press loves. Especially
Extra
and
Inside Edition.
Did you know that Millicent’s father still believes, to this day, she was murdered? He’d gladly go on camera. Her brother—who’s a lawyer, by the way—also has doubts. Of course, they don’t know anything about you or your relationship with her. They also don’t know that you liked to beat the crap out of her. What do you think they, the Belgian authorities, or the press would do with all that?”

She had him, and knew it.

“This is no setup, Langford. It’s not about getting you to admit anything. I don’t need your admissions. It’s about looking after me. I. Want. Money.”

“And, for the sake of argument, if I agreed, what would stop you from shaking me down again?”

“Not one thing,” she said through clenched teeth.

He allowed himself a grin, then a chuckle. “You are a devil.”

She returned the compliment. “Seems we’re perfect for each other.”

He liked the amicable note in her voice. Never had he suspected that so much larceny coursed through her veins. Aatos Kane would like nothing more than to rid himself of his obligation, and even the hint of scandal would offer the senator a perfect opportunity.
I’m willing to hold up my end,
Kane would say,
you’re the one with problems.

And there’d be nothing he could do.

It would take reporters less than an hour to verify that his tour of duty in Brussels coincided with Millicent’s. Edwin Davis had also been there and that romantic fool had a thing for Millicent. He’d known that at the time, but could not have cared less. Davis had been weak and unimportant. Not anymore. God knew where he was. He’d heard nothing about Davis in several days. But the woman sitting across from him was a different matter. She had a loaded gun, aimed straight at him, and knew where to shoot.

“Okay. I’ll pay.”

She reached into her jacket pocket and removed a sheet of paper. “Here’s the bank and routing number. Make the payment, in full, within the next hour.”

She tossed it on the desk.

He did not move.

She smiled. “Don’t look so glum.”

He said nothing.

“Tell you what,” she said, “To show you my good faith, and my willingness to work with you on a permanent basis, once the payment is confirmed I’m going to give you something else you really want.”

She stood from the chair.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Me. I’m yours tomorrow night. So long as I get paid in the next hour.”

SEVENTY-NINE

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 15
12:50 AM

D
OROTHEA WAS NOT HAPPY.
T
HE PLANE BUMPED ITS WAY THROUGH
rough air like a truck on a pitted dirt road, which brought back memories of her childhood and trips to the lodge with her father. They’d loved the outdoors. While Christl shunned guns and hunting, she’d loved both. It had been something she and her father had shared. Unfortunately, they’d only enjoyed a few seasons. She was ten when he died. Or, better put, when he never came back home again. And that sad thought scooped out another crater in the pit of her stomach, deepening an emptiness that seemed to never abate.

It was after her father’s disappearance that she and Christl had drifted farther apart. Different friends, interests, tastes. Lives. How did two people who sprang from the same egg grow so distant?

Only one explanation made sense.

Their mother.

For decades she’d forced them to compete. And those battles had bred resentment. Dislike came next. An easy jump from there to hatred.

She sat strapped into her seat, bundled in her gear. Malone had been right about the clothing. This misery wouldn’t end for at least another five hours. The crew had distributed box lunches when they’d boarded. Cheese roll, cookies, chocolate bar, a drumstick, and an apple. No way she could eat a bite. Just the thought of food made her sick. She pressed her parka tight into the seat’s web backings and tried to be comfortable. An hour ago Malone had disappeared up into the flight deck. Henn and Werner were asleep, but Christl seemed wide awake.

Perhaps she was anxious, too.

This flight was the worst of her life, and not just from the discomfort. They were flying to their destiny. Was something there? If so, was it good or bad?

After suiting up, they’d each packed their insulated rucksacks. She’d brought only a change of clothes, a toothbrush, some toiletries, and an automatic pistol. Her mother had sneaked it to her in Ossau. Since this was not a commercial flight, there’d been no security inspections. Though she resented allowing her mother to make yet another decision for her, she felt better with the gun nearby.

Christl’s head turned.

Their eyes met in the half-light.

What a bitter piece of irony that they were here, on this plane, thrust together. Would speaking to her do any good?

She decided to try.

She unbuckled her harness and rose from the seat. She crossed the narrow aisle and sat beside her sister. “We have to stop this,” she said over the noise.

“I plan to. Once we find what I know is there.” Christl’s expression was as cold as the plane’s interior.

She tried again. “None of that matters.”

“Not to you. It never did. All you cared about was passing the wealth to your precious Georg.”

The words pierced her, and she wanted to know, “Why did you resent him?”

“He was all that I could never give, dear sister.”

She caught the bitterness as conflicting emotions collided inside her. Dorothea had wept by Georg’s coffin for two days trying, with everything she possessed, to release his memory. Christl had come to the funeral, but left quickly. Not once had her sister offered any condolences.

Nothing.

Georg’s death had signaled a turning point in Dorothea’s life. Everything changed. Her marriage, her family. And, most important, herself. She did not like what she’d become, but had readily accepted anger and resentment as substitutes for a child she’d adored.

“You’re barren?” she asked.

“You care?”

“Does Mother know you can’t have children?” she asked.

“What does it matter? This isn’t about children anymore. It’s about the Oberhauser legacy. What this family believed.”

She could see that this effort was futile. The gulf between them was far too wide to either fill or bridge.

She started to rise.

Christl cracked her hand down on her wrist. “So I didn’t say I was sorry when he died. At least you know what it is like to have a child.”

The pettiness of the comment stunned her. “God help any child you would have had. You could have never cared for one. You’re incapable of that kind of love.”

“Seems you didn’t do such a great job. Yours is dead.”

Damn her.

Her right hand formed a fist and her arm powered upward, smashing into Christl’s face.

R
AMSEY SAT AT HIS DESK AND PREPARED HIMSELF FOR WHAT LAY
ahead. Surely more interviews and press attention. Admiral Sylvian’s funeral was tomorrow, at Arlington National Cemetery, and he reminded himself to make mention of that sad event to every interviewer.
Focus on the fallen comrade. Be humble that you’ve been chosen to follow in his footsteps. Regret the loss of a fellow flag officer.
The funeral would be a full-dress affair with honors. The military certainly knew how to bury its own. They’d done it often enough.

His cell phone rang. An international number. Germany. About time.

“Good evening, Admiral,” a gravelly woman’s voice said.

“Frau Oberhauser. I’ve been expecting your call.”

“And how did you know I would call?”

“Because you’re an anxious old bitch who likes to be in control.”

She chuckled. “That I am. Your men did a good job. Malone is dead.”

“I prefer to wait till they report that fact to me.”

“I’m afraid that’s going to be impossible. They’re dead, as well.”

“Then you’re the one with a problem. I have to have confirmation.”

“Have you heard anything about Malone in the last twelve hours? Any reports of what he might be doing?”

No, he hadn’t.

“I saw him die.”

“Then we have nothing more to say.”

“Except you owe me an answer to my question. Why did my husband never come back?”

What the hell? Tell her.
“The submarine malfunctioned.”

“And the crew? My husband?”

“They didn’t survive.”

Silence.

Finally, she said, “You saw the submarine and the crew?”

“I did.”

“Tell me what you saw.”

“You don’t want to know.”

Another long pause, then, “Why was it necessary to cover this up?”

“The submarine was top secret. Its mission was secret. There was no choice at the time. We couldn’t risk the Soviets finding it. Only eleven men aboard, so it was easy to conceal the facts.”

“And you left them there?”

“Your husband agreed to those conditions. He knew the risks.”

“And you Americans say Germans are heartless.”

“We’re practical, Frau Oberhauser. We protect the world, you folks tried to conquer it. Your husband signed on for a dangerous mission. His idea, actually. He’s not the first to make that choice.”

He was hoping this would be the last he heard from her. He didn’t need her aggravation.

“Good-bye, Admiral. I hope you rot in hell.”

He heard the emotion in her voice, but could not care less. “I wish only the same for you.”

And he clicked off.

He made a mental note to change his cell phone number. That way he’d never have to talk to that crazy German again.

C
HARLIE
S
MITH LOVED A CHALLENGE
. R
AMSEY HAD DELEGATED
him a fifth target, but made clear that the job had to be done today. Absolutely nothing could arouse suspicions. A clean kill, no aftertaste. Usually that would not be a problem. But he was working with no file, only a few scant facts from Ramsey, and a twelve-hour window. If successful, Ramsey had promised an impressive bonus. Enough to pay for Bailey Mill, with plenty left over for remodeling and furnishing.

He was back from Asheville, at his apartment, the first time home in a couple of months. He’d managed a few hours’ sleep and was ready for what lay ahead. He heard a soft chime from the kitchen table and checked his cell phone ID. Not a number he recognized, though it was a Washington-area exchange. Perhaps it was Ramsey calling from an anonymous phone. He’d do that sometimes. Theman was eaten up by paranoia.

He answered.

“I’m calling for Charlie Smith,” a woman’s voice said.

The use of that name brought his senses alert. He used that label only with Ramsey. “You got the wrong number.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Afraid so.”

“I wouldn’t hang up,” she said. “What I have to say could make or break your life.”

“Like I said, lady, wrong number.”

“You killed Douglas Scofield.”

A cold chill swept through him as realization dawned. “You were there, with the guy?”

“Not me, but they work for me. I know all about you, Charlie.”

He said nothing, but her having the phone number and knowing his alias were major problems. Actually, catastrophic. “What do you want?”

“Your ass.”

He chuckled.

“But I’m willing to trade yours for someone else’s.”

“Let me guess. Ramsey?”

“You are a bright guy.”

“I don’t suppose you plan to tell me who you are?”

“Sure. Unlike you, I don’t live a false life.”

“Then who the hell are you?”

“Diane McCoy. Deputy national security adviser to the president of the United States.”