The Charlemagne Pursuit (Cotton Malone 4)

The Magellan Billet liked to think it was a player in international espionage. No way. Twelve friggin' lawyers? Get real. None of them was worth a damn. Cotton Malone? He'd been different. But he was retired, concerned

only with his father. Actually, right now he should be pissed off, and nothing clouded judgment better than anger.

"Nelle won't be a factor."

"Davis went straight to Atlanta. He's not impulsive."

Granted, but still, "He doesn't know the game, the rules, or the stakes."

"You realize he's probably headed for Zachary Alexander?"

"Anything else?"

"Don't screw this up."

She may have been the national security adviser, but he was no underling to be ordered about. "I'll try not to."

"This is my ass, too. Don't forget that. You have a good day, Admiral."

And she hung up.

This was going to be dicey. How many balloons could he hold underwater at one time? He checked his watch.

At least one of those balloons should pop shortly.

He glanced to his desk at yesterday's New York Times and a story in the national section, concerning Admiral David Sylvian, a four-star and vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Thirty-seven years of military service. Fifty-nine years old. Currently hospitalized after a motorcycle accident a week ago thanks to black ice on a Virginia highway. He was expected to recover, but his condition was listed as serious. The White House was quoted as wishing the admiral well. Sylvian was a champion of eliminating waste and had totally rewritten Pentagon budgeting and procurement procedures. A submariner. Well liked. Respected.

An obstacle.

Ramsey had not known when his moment would come, but now that it had, he was ready. Over the past week, everything had dropped into place. Charlie Smith would handle things here.

Time now for Europe.

He reached for the phone and dialed an international number.

The other line was answered after the fourth ring. He asked, "How's the weather there?"

"Cloudy, cold, and miserable."

The proper response. He was talking to right person. "Those Christmas parcels I ordered, I'd like them carefully wrapped and delivered."

"Overnighted or regular postal?"

"Overnighted. The holidays are fast approaching."

"We can make that happen within the hour."

"Wonderful."

He hung up.

Sterling Wilkerson and Cotton Malone would soon be dead.

SIXTEEN

WHITE OAK, VIRGINIA

5:15 PM

CHARLIE SMITH GLANCED AT THE TINY FLUORESCENT HANDS ON his collector's Indiana Jones watch, then stared out the windshield of the parked Hyundai. He'd be glad when spring returned and the time changed. He had some sort of psychological reaction to winter. It had started when he was a teenager, but worsened when he lived in Europe. He'd seen a story about the condition on Inside Edition. Long nights, little sun, frigid temperatures.

Depressing as hell.

The hospital's main entrance loomed a hundred feet away. The gray-stuccoed rectangle rose three stories. The file on the passenger seat lay open, ready for reference, but his attention returned to his iPhone and a Star Trek episode he'd downloaded. Kirk and a lizardlike alien were battling each other on an uninhabited asteroid. He'd seen every one of the original seventy-nine episodes so many times he usually knew the next line of dialogue. And speaking of babes, Uhura was definitely hot. He watched as the alien lizard cornered Kirk, but glanced away from the screen just as two people pushed through the front doors and walked toward a mocha-colored Ford hybrid.

He compared the license plate with the file.

The vehicle belonged to the daughter and her husband.

Another man emerged from the hospital-midthirties, reddish hair-and headed for a zinc Toyota SUV.

He verified the license plate. The son.

An older woman followed. The wife. Her face matched the black-and-white photo in the file.

What a joy to be prepared.

Kirk ran like hell from the lizard, but Smith knew he wouldn't get far. A showdown was coming.

Same as here.

Room 245 should now be empty.

He knew the hospital was a regional facility, its two operating rooms utilized around the clock, the emergency room accommodating EMS trucks from at least four other counties. Plenty of activity, all of which should allow Smith, dressed as an orderly, to easily move about.

He left the car and strolled through the main entrance.

The lobby reception desk was unoccupied. He knew the employee went off duty at five PM and would not to return until seven AM tomorrow. A few visitors strolled toward the parking lot. Visiting hours ended at five, but the file had reminded him that most people did not clear out until nearly six.

He passed the elevators and followed shiny terrazzo to the far side of the ground floor, stopping in the laundry room. Five minutes later he confidently strode off the second-floor elevator, the rubber soles of his Nurse Mates silent on the shiny tile. The halls to his left and right were quiet, doors to the occupied rooms closed. The nurses' station directly ahead was occupied by two older women, who sat and worked on files.

He carried an armful of neatly folded bedsheets. Downstairs in the laundry room he'd learned that rooms 248 and 250, the closest to 245, could use fresh sheets.

The only difficult decisions he'd faced all day came when choosing what to upload on his iPhone and the actual means of death. Luckily, the hospital's main computer had provided convenient access to the patient's medical records. Though enough internal trauma was present to justify heart or liver failure-his two favorite mechanisms-low blood pressure seemed the doctors' current concern. Medication had already been prescribed to counter the problem, but a note indicated they were waiting for morning before administering the dosage to give the patient time to regain his strength.

Perfect.

He'd already checked Virginia's law on autopsies. Unless death resulted from an act of violence, via suicide, suddenly when in good health, unattended by a physician, or in any suspicious or unusual manner, there'd be no autopsy.

He loved it when rules worked in his favor.

He entered room 248 and tossed the sheets on the bare mattress. He quickly made the bed, tucking tight hospital corners. He then turned his attention across the hall. A gaze in both directions confirmed that all was quiet.

With three steps he entered room 245.

A low-wattage fixture tossed cool white light onto a papered wall. The heart monitor beeped. A respirator hissed. The nurses' station continuously monitored both, so he was careful not to upset either.

The patient lay on the bed-skull, face, arms, and legs heavily bandaged. According to the records, when first brought in by ambulance and rushed into the trauma center, there had been a fractured skull, lacerations, and intestinal damage. Miraculously, though, the spinal cord had not been damaged. Surgery had taken three hours, mainly to repair internal injuries and stitch the lacerations. The blood loss had been significant, and, for a few hours, the situation teetered on the precarious. But hope eventually turned to promise and the official status was upgraded from serious to stable.

Still, this man had to die.

Why? Smith had no idea. Nor did he care.

He snapped on latex gloves and found the syringe in his pocket. The hospital's computer had also provided the relevant stats so the hypodermic could be preloaded with the proper amount of nitroglycerin.

A couple of squirts and he inserted the bevel-tipped needle into the Y-port receptacle for the intravenous bottle suspended next to the bed. There would be no danger of detection, since the nitro would metabolize within the body as the man died, leaving no traces.

An instant death, though preferable, would set off monitors and bring nurses.

Smith needed time to leave and knew that the death of Admiral David Sylvian would come in about half an hour.

Any discovery of his presence then would be impossible, since he'd be far away, out of uniform, well on the way to his next appointment.

SEVENTEEN

GARMISCH

10:00 PM

MALONE REENTERED THE POSTHOTEL. HE'D LEFT THE MONASTERY and driven straight back to Garmisch, his stomach twisted in knots. He kept visualizing the crew of NR-1A, trapped on the bottom of a frozen ocean, hoping somebody would save them.

But nobody had.

Stephanie had not called back and he was tempted to contact her, but realized that she'd call when there was something to say.

The woman, Dorothea Lindauer, was a problem. Could her father really have been aboard NR-1A? If not, how would she have known the man's name from the report? Though the crew manifest had been part of the official press release issued after the sinking, he recalled no mention of a Dietz Oberhauser. The German's presence aboard the sub was apparently not for public consumption, regardless of the countless other lies that had been told.

What was happening here?

Nothing about this Bavarian sojourn seemed good.

He trudged up the wooden staircase. Some sleep would be welcomed. Tomorrow he'd sort things through. He glanced down the hall. The door to his room hung ajar. Hopes of any respite vanished.

He gripped the gun in his pocket and stepped lightly down the colorful runner that lined the hardwood flooring, trying to minimize squeaks that kept announcing his presence.

The room's geography flashed through his mind.

The door opened into an alcove that led straight ahead into a spacious bath. To the right was the main section that accommodated a queen-sized bed, a desk, a few side tables, a television, and two chairs.

Perhaps the innkeepers had simply failed to close the door? Possible, but after today he wasn't taking any chances. He stopped and, with the gun, nudged the door inward, noticing that the lamps were switched on.