The Charlemagne Pursuit (Cotton Malone 4)

"It's nearly noon," she said.

"I was tired."

"We need to leave."

He noticed the contents of the boxes scattered across the floor. "Where are we going?"

"Hopefully, to get a step ahead of Christl."

THIRTY-TWO

WASHINGTON, DC

8:10 AM

RAMSEY WAS ENERGIZED. HE'D CHECKED MEDIA WEBSITES FOR Jacksonville, Florida, and was pleased to see a report on a fatal fire at the home of Zachary Alexander, a retired navy commander. Nothing unusual about the blaze, and preliminary reports had targeted the cause as an electrical short due to faulty wiring. Charlie Smith had clearly crafted two masterpieces yesterday. He hoped today would be equally productive.

The morning was mid-Atlantic crisp and sunny. He was strolling the Mall, near the Smithsonian, the sparkling white Capitol looming clear on its hilly perch. He loved a frosty winter's day. With Christmas only thirteen days away and Congress not in session, the business of government had slowed, everything waiting for a new year and the start of another legislative season.

A slow news time, which probably explained the extensive coverage the death of Admiral Sylvian was receiving in the media. Daniels' recent criticisms of the Joint Chiefs had made the untimely death more timely. Ramsey had listened to the president's comments with amusement, knowing that nobody in Congress would be headstrong about changing that command. True, the Joint Chiefs ordered little, but when they spoke people listened. Which probably explained, more than anything else, the White House's resentment. Particularly Daniels, a lame duck, wobbling toward the climax of his political career.

Ahead, he spotted a short, dapper man dressed in a slim-fitting cashmere overcoat, his pale, cherubic face reddened from the cold. Clean-shaven, he had bristly dark hair that lay close to his scalp. He stomped the pavement in an apparent effort to rid himself of a chill. Ramsey glanced at his watch and estimated the envoy had been waiting for at least fifteen minutes.

He approached.

"Admiral, do you know how friggin' cold it is out here?"

"Twenty-eight degrees."

"And you couldn't be on time?"

"If I needed to be on time, then I would have been."

"I'm not in the mood for rank pulling. Not in the mood at all."

Interesting how being the chief of staff for a US senator bestowed such courage. He wondered if Aatos Kane had told this acolyte to be an ass-or was this improvisation?

"I'm here because the senator said you had something to say."

"Does he still want to be president?" All of Ramsey's previous contacts with Kane had been shuttled through this emissary.

"He does. And he will be."

"Spoken with the confidence of a staffer firmly grasping the coattails of his boss."

"Every shark has its remora."

He smiled. "That it does."

"What do you want, Admiral?"

He resented the younger man's haughtiness. Time to put this man in his place. "I want you to shut up and listen."

He noticed the eyes studying him with the calculated gaze of a political pro.

"When Kane was in trouble, he asked for help, and I gave him what he wanted. No questions, it was done."

He waited a moment before speaking again as three men rushed by.

"I might add," he said, "that I violated a multitude of laws, which I'm sure you could not care less about."

His listener was not a man of age, wisdom, or wealth. But he was ambitious and understood the value of political favors.

"The senator is aware of what you did, Admiral. Though, as you know, we were not aware of the full extent of what you planned."

"Nor did you reject the benefits afterward."

"Granted. What is it you want now?"

"I want Kane to tell the president that I'm to be named to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. In Sylvian's vacancy."

"And you think the president can't tell the senator no?"

"Not without severe consequences."

The agitated face staring back at him lightened with a fleeting smile. "It's not going to happen."

Had he heard right?

"The senator assumed that's what you wanted. Sylvian's corpse probably wasn't even cold when you made that call earlier." The younger man hesitated. "Which makes us wonder."

He spied mistrust in the man's observant eyes.

"After all, as you say, you performed us a service once, with no residuals."

He ignored the implications and asked, "What do you mean, not going to happen?"

"You're too controversial. Too much of a lightning rod. Too many in the navy either don't like you or don't trust you. Endorsing your appointment would have fallout. And as I mentioned, we're making a White House run, starting early next year."

He realized that the classic Washington two-step had started. A famous dance that politicians like Aatos Kane were experts at performing. Every pundit agreed. Kane's White House run seemed plausible. In fact, he was his party's leading contender, with little competition. Ramsey knew the senator had been quietly amassing pledges that now totaled in the millions. Kane was a personable, engaging man, comfortable in front of a crowd and a camera. He was neither a true conservative nor a liberal, but a mixture that the press loved to tag middle of the road. He'd been married to the same woman for thirty years with not a hint of scandal. He was almost too perfect. Except, of course, for that favor Kane had once needed.

"Fine way to thank your friends," Ramsey said.

"Who said you were our friend?"

A weariness creased his forehead that he quickly masked. He should have seen it coming. Arrogance. The most common illness afflicting longtime politicians. "No, you're right. That was presumptuous of me."

The man's face lost its impassive look. "Get this straight, Admiral. Senator Kane thanks you for what you did. We would have preferred another way, but he still appreciates it. He repaid you, though, when he blocked the navy from transferring you. Not once, but twice. We sent a full blitz into the backfield on that one. That's what you wanted and that's what we gave you. You don't own Aatos Kane. Not now. Not ever. What you're asking is impossible. In less than sixty days the senator will be an announced candidate for the White House. You're an admiral who should retire. Do it. Enjoy a well-earned rest."

He submerged any defensiveness and simply nodded in understanding.

"And one more thing. The senator resented your call this morning demanding that we meet. He sent me to tell you that this relationship is over. No more visits, no more calls. Now I have to go."

"Of course. Don't let me keep you."

"Look, Admiral, I know you're pissed. I would be, too. But you're not going on the Joint Chiefs. Retire. Become a Fox TV analyst and tell the world what a bunch of idiots we are. Enjoy life."

He said nothing and simply watched as the prick paraded off, surely proud of his stellar performance, eager to report how

he'd put the head of naval intelligence in his place.

He walked to an empty bench and sat.

Cold seeped from its slats through his overcoat.

Senator Aatos Kane had no idea. Neither did his chief of staff.

But they were both about to find out.

THIRTY-THREE

MUNICH, GERMANY

1:00 PM

WILKERSON HAD SLEPT WELL, SATISFIED BOTH WITH HOW HE'D handled himself at the lodge and with Dorothea afterward. Having access to money, few responsibilities, and a beautiful woman weren't bad substitutes for not being an admiral.

Provided, of course, that he could stay alive.

In preparation for this assignment, he'd back-checked the Oberhauser family thoroughly. Assets in the billions, and not old money-ancient money that had lasted through centuries of political upheavals. Opportunists? Surely. Their family crest seemed to explain it all. A dog clutching a rat in its mouth, encased inside a crested cauldron. What myriad contradictions. Much like the family itself. But how else could they have survived?

Time, though, had taken a toll.

Dorothea and her sister were all the Oberhausers left.

Both beautiful, high-strung creatures. Nearing fifty. Identical in appearance, though each tried hard to distinguish herself. Dorothea had pursued business degrees and actively worked with her mother in the family concerns. She'd married in her early twenties and birthed a son, but he was killed five years ago, a week after his twentieth birthday, in a car accident. All reports indicated that she changed after that. Hardened. Became enslaved to deep anxieties and unpredictable moods. To shoot a man with a shotgun, as she'd done last night, then make love afterward with such an unfettered intensity, proved that dichotomy.

Business had never interested Christl, nor had marriage or children. He'd met her only once, at a social function Dorothea and her husband had attended when he'd first made contact. She was unassuming. An academician, like her father and grandfather, studying oddities, mulling the endless possibilities of legend and myth. Both of her master's theses had been on obscure connections between mythical ancient civilizations-like Atlantis, he'd found after reading both-and developing cultures. Fantasy, all of it. But the male Oberhausers had been fascinated by such ridiculousness, and Christl seemed to have inherited their curiosity. Her childbearing days were over, so he wondered what would happen after Isabel Oberhauser died. Two women who did not like each other-neither one of whom could leave blood heirs-would inherit it all.