The Charlemagne Pursuit (Cotton Malone 4)

He agreed, but it shouldn't matter. Wilkerson and Malone were most likely dead. "We just used that foolishness to our advantage."

"I have no idea how that was to our advantage."

"Just know that it was."

"Langford, am I going to regret this?"

"You're welcome to serve out Daniels' term, then go to work for some think tank writing reports that nobody reads. Ex-White House staffers look great on the letterhead, and I hear they're paid well. Maybe one of the networks would hire you to spout out ten-second sound bites on what other people are doing to change the world. Pays good, too, even if you look like an idiot most of the time."

"Like I said. Am I going to regret this?"

"Diane, power has to be taken. There's no other way to acquire it. Now, you never answered me. Will Daniels cooperate and appoint me?"

"I read the Blazek report," she said. "I also did some checking. You were on Holden when it went to Antarctica to search for that sub. You and two others. The top brass sent your team under classified orders. In fact, that mission is still classified. I can't even learn about it. I did discover that you went ashore and filed a report on what you found, delivered personally, by you, to the chief of naval operations. What he did with the information, nobody knows."

"We didn't find anything."

"You're a liar."

He gauged her assault. This woman was formidable-a political animal with excellent instincts. She could help and she could hurt. So he shifted. "You're right. I am lying. But believe me, you don't want to know what really happened."

"No, I don't. But whatever it is may come back to haunt you."

He'd thought the same thing for thirty-eight years. "Not if I can help it."

She seemed to be restraining a surge of annoyance at his avoidance of her inquiries. "It's been my experience, Langford, that the past always has a way of returning. Those who don't learn, or can't remember it, are doomed to repeat it. Now you have an ex-agent involved-a damn good one, I might add-who has a personal stake in this mess. And Edwin Davis is on the loose. I have no idea what he's doing-"

He'd heard enough. "Can you deliver Daniels?"

She paused, taking in his rebuke, then slowly said, "I'd say that all depends on your friends on Capitol Hill. Daniels needs their help on a great many things. He's doing what every president does at the end. Thinking legacy. He has a legislative agenda so, if the right members of Congress want you on the Joint Chiefs, then he'll give it to them-in return, of course, for votes. The questions are easy. Will there be a vacancy to fill, and can you deliver the right members?"

He'd talked enough. There were things to do before he slept. So he ended the meeting on a note Diane McCoy should not forget. "The right members will not only endorse my candidacy, they'll insist on it."

TWENTY-FOUR

ETTAL MONASTERY

1:05 AM

MALONE WATCHED AS CHRISTL FALK UNLOCKED THE DOOR FOR the abbey church. Clearly, the Oberhauser family had considerable pull with the monks. It was the middle of the night and they were coming and going as they pleased.

The opulent church remained dimly lit. They crossed the darkened marble floor with only their leather heels echoing across the warm interior. His senses were alert. He'd learned that empty European churches, at night, tended to be a problem.

They entered the sacristy and Christl headed straight for the portal that led down into the abbey's bowels. At the bottom of the stairs, the door at the far end of the corridor hung ajar.

He grabbed her arm and shook his head, signaling that they should advance with caution. He gripped the gun from the cable car and kept close to the wall. At the end of the hallway he peered inside the room.

Everything was askew.

"Maybe the monks are pissed?" he said.

The stones and wood carvings lay scattered on the floor, the displays in total disarray. Tables at the far end had been toppled. The two wall cabinets had been rifled through.

Then he saw the body.

The woman from the cable car. No visible wounds or blood, but he caught a familiar scent in the still air.

"Cyanide."

"She was poisoned?"

"Look at her. She choked on her tongue."

He saw that Christl didn't want to look at the corpse.

"I can't take that," she said. "Dead bodies."

She was becoming upset, so he asked, "What did we come to see?"

She seemed to grab hold of her emotions and her gaze raked the debris. "They're gone. The stones from Antarctica that Grandfather found. They're not here."

He didn't see them, either. "Are they important?"

"They have the same writing on them as the books."

"Tell me what I don't know."

"This is not right," she muttered.

"You could say that. The monks are going to be a little upset, regardless of your family's patronage."

She was clearly flustered.

"Are the stones all we came to see?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No. You're right. There's more." She stepped toward one of the gaily decorated cabinets, its doors and drawers open, and glanced inside. "Oh, my."

He came up behind her and saw that a hole had been hacked into the rear panel, the splintered opening large enough for a hand to pass through.

"Grandfather and Father kept their papers there."

"Which somebody seems to have known."

She inserted her arm. "Empty."

Then she rushed for the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"We have to hurry. I only hope we're not too late."

RAMSEY SWITCHED OFF THE LIGHTS ON THE GROUND FLOOR AND climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Diane McCoy was gone. He'd considered several times expanding their collaboration. She was attractive in body and brain. But he'd decided that it was a bad idea. How many men of power had been brought down by a piece of ass? Too many to even recall, and he did not intend to join that list.

Clearly, McCoy had been concerned about Edwin Davis. He knew Davis. Their paths had crossed years ago in Brussels with Millicent, a woman he'd enjoyed, many times. She, too, was bright, young, and eager. But also- "Pregnant," Millicent said.

He'd heard her the first time. "What do you

want me to do about it?"

"Marrying me would be good."

"But I don't love you."

She laughed. "Yes, you do. You just won't admit it."

"No, actually, I don't. I enjoy sleeping with you. I enjoy listening to you tell me about what goes on in the office. I enjoy picking your brain. But I don't want to marry you."

She snuggled close. "You'd miss me if I were gone."

He was amazed at how seemingly intelligent women could care so little about their self-respect. He'd struck this woman too many times to count, yet she never fled, almost as if she liked it. Deserved it. Wanted it. A few jabs right now would do them both good, but he decided patience would serve him better, so he held her in a tight embrace and softly said, "You're right. I would miss you."

Less than a month later, she was dead.

Within a week, Edwin Davis was gone, too.

Millicent had told him how Davis always came when she called and helped her through his constant rejection. Why she confessed such things, he could only guess. It was as if his knowing might prevent him from hurting her again. Yet he always did, and she always forgave him. Davis never said a word, but Ramsey many times saw hatred in the younger man's eyes-along with the frustration that came from his utter inability to do anything about it. Davis then was a low-level State Department employee on one of his first foreign assignments, his job to resolve problems not create them-to keep his mouth shut and his ears open. But now Edwin Davis was a deputy national security adviser to the president of the United States. Different time, different rules. He has free access to Daniels, as I do, per the president's order. That's what McCoy had said. She was right. Whatever Davis was doing involved him. No proof existed for the conclusion, just a feeling, one he'd learned long ago to never doubt.