"I do now. Bought it a month ago. Thought a retreat in the country would be a wise investment. Thinking about fixing it up and renting it out. Going to call it Bailey Mill."
"Don't I pay you enough?"
"A man has to diversify, Admiral. Can't be reliant on just a paycheck to live. Stock market, real estate, that's the way to be ready for old age."
"It'll take a fortune to repair all this."
"Which brings me to an informational note. Because of unanticipated fuel cost increases, higher-than-expected travel fares, and an overall increase in overhead and expenses, we will be experiencing a slight rate increase. Though we strive to keep costs down while providing excellent customer service, our stockholders demand that we maintain an acceptable profit margin."
"You're full of shit, Charlie."
"And besides, this place cost me a fortune and I need more money."
On paper Smith was a paid asset who performed specialized surveillance services overseas, where wiretapping laws were loose, particularly in central Asia and the Middle East. So he didn't give a damn what Smith charged. "Send me a bill. Now listen. It's time to act."
He was glad that preparatory work had all been done over the past year. Files readied. Plans determined. He'd known an opportunity would eventually arrive-not when or how, just that it would.
And so it had.
"Start with the prime target, as we discussed. Then move south for the other two in order."
Smith gave him a mock salute. "Aye, aye, Captain Sparrow. We shall make sail and find the fairest wind."
He ignored the idiot. "No contact between us until they're all done. Nice and clean, Charlie. Really clean."
"Satisfaction is guaranteed or your money back. Customer satisfaction is our greatest concern."
Some people could write songs, pen novels, paint, sculpt, or draw. Smith killed, and with an unmatched talent. And but for the fact that Charlie Smith was the best murderer he'd ever known, he would have shot the irritating idiot long ago.
Still, he decided to make the gravity of the situation perfectly clear.
So he cocked the Walther and rammed the barrel into Smith's face. Ramsey was a good six inches taller, so he glared down and said, "Don't screw this up. I listen to your mouth and let you rant, but don't. Screw. This. Up."
Smith raised his hands in mock surrender. "Please, Miss Scarlett, don't beat me. Please don't beat me…" The voice was high-pitched and colloquial, a crude imitation of Butterfly McQueen.
He didn't appreciate racial humor, so he kept the gun pointed.
Smith started to laugh. "Oh, Admiral, lighten up."
He wondered what it took to rattle this man. He replaced the weapon beneath his coat.
"I do have one question," Smith said. "It's important. Something I really need to know."
He waited.
"Boxers or briefs?"
Enough. He turned and left the room.
Smith started laughing again. "Come on, Admiral. Boxers or briefs? Or are you one of those who are free to the wind. CNN says ten percent of us don't wear any underwear. That's me-free to the wind."
Ramsey kept marching toward the door.
"May the Force be with you, Admiral," Smith hollered. "A Jedi Knight never fails. And not to worry, they'll all be dead before you know it."
NINE
MALONE'S GAZE RAKED THE ROOM. EVERY DETAIL BECAME CRITICAL. An open doorway to his right drew his alarm, especially the unexplored darkness beyond.
"It's only us," his hostess said. Her English was good, laced with a mild German accent.
She motioned, and the woman from the cable car strutted toward him. As she approached he saw her caress the bruise on her face from where he'd kicked her.
"Perhaps I'll get the chance to return the favor one day," she said to him.
"I think you already have. Apparently, I've been played."
She smiled with clear satisfaction, then left, the door clanging shut behind her.
He studied the remaining woman. She was tall and shapely with ash-blond hair cut close to the nape of a thin neck. Nothing marred the creamy patina of her rosy skin. Her eyes were the color of creamed coffee, a shade he'd never seen before, and cast an allure that he found hard to ignore. She wore a tan rib-necked sweater, jeans, and a lamb's-wool blazer.
Everything about her screamed privilege and problem.
She was gorgeous and knew it.
"Who are you?" he asked, bringing out the gun.
"I assure you, I'm no threat. I went to a lot of trouble to meet you."
"If you don't mind, the gun makes me feel better."
She shrugged. "Suit yourself. To answer your question, I'm Dorothea Lindauer. I live near here. My family is Bavarian, with ties back to the Wittelsbachs. We're Oberbayer. Upper Bavarian. Connected to the mountains. We also have deep ties to this monastery. So much that the Benedictines grant us liberties."
"Like killing a man, then leading the killer to their sacristy?"
The skin between Lindauer's eyebrows creased. "Among others. But that is, you must say, a grand liberty."
"How did you know that I'd be on that mountain today?"
"I have friends who keep me informed."
"I need a better answer."
"The subject of USS Blazek interests me. I, too, have wanted to know what really happened. I assume you have now read the file. Tell me, was it informative?"
"I'm out of here." He turned for the door.
"You and I have something in common," she said.
He kept walking.
"Both of our fathers were aboard that submarine."
STEPHANIE PUSHED A BUTTON ON HER PHONE. SHE WAS STILL IN her office with Edwin Davis.
"It's the White House," her assistant informed through the speaker.
Davis kept silent. She immediately opened the line.
"Seems we're at it again," the booming voice said through both the handset she held and the speaker from which Davis listened.
President Danny Daniels.
> "And what is it I did this time?" she asked.
"Stephanie, it would be easier if we could get to the point." A new voice. Female. Diane McCoy. Another deputy national security adviser. Edwin Davis' equal, and no friend of Stephanie's.
"What is the point, Diane?"
"Twenty minutes ago you downloaded a file on Captain Zachary Alexander, US Navy, retired. What we want to know is why naval intelligence is already inquiring about your interest, and why you apparently, a few days ago, authorized the copying of a classified file on a submarine lost thirty-eight years ago."
"Seems there's a better question," she said. "Why does naval intelligence give a damn? This is ancient history."
"On that," Daniels said, "we agree. I'd like that question answered myself. I've looked at the same personnel file you just obtained, and there's nothing there. Alexander was an adequate officer who served his twenty years, then retired."
"Mr. President, why are you involved in this?"
"Because Diane came into my office and told me we needed to call you."
Bullshit. No one told Danny Daniels what to do. He was a three-term governor and one-term senator who had managed twice to be elected president of the United States. He wasn't a fool, though some thought him so.
"Forgive me, sir, but from everything I've ever seen, you do exactly what you want to do."
"A perk of this job. Anyway, since you don't want to answer Diane's question, here's mine. Do you know where Edwin is?"
Davis waved his hand, signaling no.
"Is he lost?"
Daniels chuckled. "You gave that SOB Brent Green hell and probably saved my hide in the process. Balls. That's what you have, Stephanie. But on this one, we have a problem. Edwin's on a lark. He has some sort of personal thing going here. He grabbed a couple of days leave and took off yesterday. Diane thinks he came to see you."
"I don't even like him. He almost got me killed in Venice."
"The security log from downstairs," McCoy said, "indicates that he's in your building right now."
"Stephanie," Daniels said, "when I was a boy, a friend of mine told our teacher how he and his father went fishing and caught a sixty-five-pound bass in one hour. The teacher was no idiot and said that was impossible. To teach my buddy a lesson about lying, she told him how a bear came from the woods and attacked her, but was fended off by a tiny hound who beat the bear back with just a bark. 'You believe that?' the teacher asked. 'Sure,' my pal said, 'because that was my dog.' "