The Charlemagne Pursuit (Cotton Malone 4)

"You're not going to walk away from me. Not this time."

"Let go." But it was a weak command. "You are a despicable bastard. The sight of you makes me sick."

"Your mother has made clear that if we conceive she will give it all to you." He wrenched her close. "Hear me, woman. Everything to you. Christl has no need for children or a husband. But maybe the same offer was made to her, as well? Where is she right now?"

He was close. In her face.

"Use your brain. Your mother has pitted the two of you against each other to learn what happened to her husband. But above all, she wants this family to continue. The Oberhausers have money, status, and assets. What they lack is heirs."

She freed herself from his grip. He was right. Christl was with Ma lone. And her mother could never be trusted. Had the same offer of an heir been made to her?

"We're ahead of her," he said. "Our child would be legitimate."

She hated herself. But the son of a bitch made sense.

"Shall we get started?" he asked.

SIXTY-FIVE

ASHEVILLE, 5:00 PM

STEPHANIE WAS A LITTLE DISCONCERTED. DAVIS HAD DECIDED they'd stay the night and reserved one room for them both.

"I'm not ordinarily this kind of girl," she said to him as he opened the door. "Going to a hotel on the first date."

"I don't know. I heard you're easy."

She popped him on the back of the head. "You wish."

He faced her. "Here we are at a romantic four-star hotel. Last night we had a great date huddled in the freezing cold, then getting shot at. We're really bonding."

She smiled. "Don't remind me. And by the way, love your subtlety with Scofield. Worked great. He warmed right up to you."

"He's an arrogant, self-absorbed know-it-all."

"Who was there in 1971, and knows more than you and me."

He plopped down onto a bright floral bedspread. The whole room looked like something out of a Southern Living magazine. Fine furnishings, elegant curtains, decor inspired by English and French manor houses. She actually would like to savor the deep tub. She hadn't bathed since yesterday morning in Atlanta. Is this what her agents routinely experienced? Wasn't she supposed to be in charge?

"Premier king room," he said. "It's all they had available. Its rate is way over government per diem but what the hell. You're worth it."

She sank into one of the upholstered club chairs and propped her feet on a matching footstool. "If you can handle all this togetherness, I can, too. I have a feeling we're not going to get much sleep anyway."

"He's here," Davis said. "I know it."

She wasn't so sure, but she could not deny a bad feeling swirling around in her stomach.

"Scofield is in the Wharton Suite on the sixth floor. He gets it every year," Davis said.

"Desk clerk let all that slip?"

He nodded. "She doesn't like Scofield, either."

Davis fished the conference pamphlet from his pocket. "He's leading a tour of the Biltmore mansion in a little while. Then, tomorrow morning, he's going boar hunting."

"If our man's here, that's plenty of opportunities for him to make a move, not counting the time tonight in the hotel room."

She watched Davis' face. Usually its features never gave away a thing, but the mask had faded. He was anxious. She felt a dark reluctance mingling with an intense curiosity, so she asked, "What are you going to do when you finally find him?"

"Kill him."

"That would be murder."

"Maybe. But I doubt our man will go down without a fight."

"You loved her that much?"

"Men shouldn't hit women."

She wondered who he was talking to. Her? Millicent? Ramsey?

"I couldn't do anything before," he said. "I can now." His face clouded over once again, belying all emotion. "Now tell me what the president didn't want me to know."

She'd been waiting for him to ask. "It's about your co-worker." She told him where Diane McCoy had gone. "He trusts you, Edwin. More than you know." She saw he caught what she hadn't said. Don't let him down.

"I won't disappoint him."

"You can't kill this man, Edwin. We need him alive, to get Ramsey. Otherwise the real problem walks."

"I know." Defeat laced his voice.

He stood.

"We need to go."

They'd stopped by the registration desk and signed up for the remainder of the conference before coming upstairs, obtaining two tickets for the candlelight tour.

"We have to stay close to Scofield," he said. "Whether he likes it or not."

CHARLIE SMITH ENTERED THE BILTMORE MANSION, FOLLOWING the private tour inside. When he'd registered for the Ancient Mysteries Revealed Conference under another name, he'd been presented a ticket for the event. A little quick reading in the inn's gift shop informed him that from early November until New Year's the mansion offered so-called magical evenings where visitors could enjoy the chateau filled with candlelight, blazing fireplaces, holiday decorations, and live musical performances. Entry times were reserved, and tonight's was extra special since it was the last tour of the day, open only for conference attendees.

They'd been ferried from the inn in two Biltmore buses-about eighty people, he estimated. He was dressed like the others, winter colors, wool coat, dark shoes. On the trip over he'd struck up a conversation about Star Trek with another attendee. They'd discussed which series they liked best, he arguing that Enterprise was by far superior, though his listener had preferred Voyager.

"Everyone," Scofield was saying, as they stood in the frigid night before the main doors, "follow me. You're in for a real treat."

The crowd entered through an elaborate iron grille. He'd read that each room inside would be decorated for Christmas, as George Vanderbilt had done, starting in 1885 when the estate was first opened.

He was looking forward to the spectacles.

Both the house.

And his own.

MALONE CAME AWAKE. CHRISTL SLEPT BESIDE HIM, HER NAKED body against his. He glanced at his watch. 12:35 AM. Another day-Friday, December 14-had started.

He'd been asleep two hours.

A warm pulse of satisfaction flowed through him.

He hadn't done that in awhile.

Afterward, rest had come in a no-man's-land of a twilight where detailed images roamed his restless mind.

Like the framed drawing hanging one floor below.

Of the church, from 1772.

Odd the way a solution had materialized, the answer laid out in his head like an open-faced hand of solitaire. It had happened that way two years ago. At Cassiopeia Vitt's chateau. He thought about Cassiopeia. Her visits of late had been few and far between, and she was God knew where. In Aachen he'd thought about calling her for help, but decided this fight was his alone. He lay still and wondered about the myriad choices life offered. The swiftness of his decision regarding Christl's advances worked his nerves.

But at least something more had come of it.

Charlemagne's pursuit.

He now knew the end.

SIXTY-SIX

ASHEVILLE

STEPHANIE AND DAVIS FOLLOWED THE TOUR INTO BILTMORE'S grand entrance hall amid soaring walls and limestone arches. To her right, in a glass-roofed winter garden, a parade of white poinsettias encircled a marble-and-bronze fountain. The warm air smelled of fresh greenery and cinnamon.

A woman on the bus ride over had told them that the candlelight tour was billed as an old-fashioned festival of lights, decorations in a grand regal style, a Victorian picture

postcard come to life. And true to the billing, a choir sung carols from some far-off room. With no coat check Stephanie left hers unbuttoned as they lingered at the back of the group, staying out of the way of Scofield, who seemed to relish his role as host.

"We have the house to ourselves," the professor said. "This is a tradition for the conference. Two hundred fifty rooms, thirty-four bedrooms, forty-three baths, sixty-five fireplaces, three kitchens, and an indoor swimming pool. Amazing I remember all that." He laughed at his own quip. "I'll escort you through and point out some of the interesting tidbits. We'll finish back here and then you're free to roam for another half hour or so before the buses return us to the inn." He paused. "Shall we?"

Scofield led the crowd into a long gallery, maybe ninety feet, lined with silk and wool tapestries that he explained were woven in Belgium around 1530.

They visited the gorgeous library with its twenty-three thousand books and Venetian ceiling, then the music room with a spectacular Durer print. Finally, they entered an imposing banquet hall with more Flemish tapestries, a pipe organ, and a massive oak dining table that seated-she counted-sixty-four. Candlelight, firelight, and twinkling tree lights provided all of the illumination.

"The largest room in the house," Scofield announced in the banquet hall. "Seventy-two feet long, forty-two feet wide, crowned seventy feet up by a barrel vault."

An enormous Douglas fir, which stretched halfway to the ceiling, was trimmed with toys, ornaments, dried flowers, gold beads, angels, velvet, and lace. Festive music from an organ filled the hall with yuletide cheer.

She noticed Davis retreating toward the dining table, so she drifted his way and whispered, "What is it?"

He pointed to the triple fireplace, flanked with armor, as if admiring it, and said to her, "There's a guy, short and thin, navy chinos, canvas shirt, barn coat with a corduroy collar. Behind us."

She knew not to turn and look, so she concentrated on the fireplace and its high-relief overmantel, which looked like something from a Greek temple.

"He's been watching Scofield."

"Everybody's been doing that."