"Danke," the woman said, accepting.
She knew from their first meeting that the woman smoked. She selected a cigarette for herself, found some matches, and lit both.
The woman sucked two deep drags. "My money, please."
"Of course."
She watched as the eyes changed first. A pensive gaze was replaced by rushing fear, pain, then desperation. Muscles in the woman's face tightened, signaling agony. Fingers and lips released the cigarette and her hands reached for her throat. Her tongue sprang from her mouth and she gagged, sucking for air, and finding none.
Her mouth foamed.
She managed one last breath, coughed, and tried to speak, then her neck relaxed and her body collapsed.
On the waft of her last exhale came a tinge of bitter almond.
Cyanide. Skillfully laced into the tobacco.
Interesting how the dead woman had worked for people she knew nothing about. Never once had she asked a single question. Dorothea had not made the same mistake. She'd thoroughly checked out her allies. The dead woman had been simple-money motivated her-but Dorothea could not risk a loose tongue.
Cotton Malone? He could be a different story.
Since something told her she wasn't done with him.
FIFTEEN
3:20 PM
RAMSEY RETURNED TO THE NATIONAL MARITIME INTELLIGENCE Center, which housed naval intelligence. He was greeted inside his private office by his chief of staff, an ambitious captain named Hovey.
"What happened in Germany?" Ramsey immediately asked.
"The NR-1A file was passed to Malone on the Zugspitze, as planned, but then all hell broke loose on the cable ride down."
He listened to Hovey's explanation of what happened, then asked, "Where's Malone?"
"The GPS on his rental car has him all over the place. At his hotel for a while, then off to a place called Ettal Monastery. It's about nine miles north of Garmisch. Last report had him on the road back toward Garmisch."
They'd wisely tagged Malone's car, which allowed the luxury of satellite monitoring. He sat at his desk. "What of Wilkerson?"
"The SOB thinks he's smart as hell," Hovey said. "He loosely shadowed Malone, waited in Garmisch awhile, then drove to Fussen and met with some bookstore owner. He had two helpers in a car outside. They carted off boxes."
"He gets under your skin, doesn't he?"
"He's far more trouble than he's worth. We need to cut him loose."
He'd sensed a certain distaste before. "Where'd you two cross paths?"
"NATO headquarters. He almost cost me my captain's bars. Luckily my commanding officer hated the ass-kissing bastard, too."
He had no time for petty jealousy. "Do we know what Wilkerson is doing now?"
"Probably deciding who can help him more. Us or them."
When he'd learned that Stephanie Nelle had acquired the court of inquiry report on NR-1A and its intended destination, he'd immediately sent freelancers to the Zugspitze, intentionally not informing Wilkerson of their presence. His Berlin station chief thought he was the only asset on the ground and had been instructed to keep a loose eye on Malone and report back. "Did Wilkerson call in?"
Hovey shook his head. "Not a word."
His intercom buzzed and he listened as his secretary told him that the White House was on the line. He dismissed Hovey and lifted the phone.
"We have a problem," Diane McCoy said.
"How do we have a problem?"
"Edwin Davis is loose."
"The president can't rein him in?"
"Not if he doesn't want to."
"You sense that?"
"I managed to get Daniels to talk to him, but all he did was listen to some rant about Antarctica, then said 'have a nice day' and hung up."
He asked for details and she explained what had happened. Then he asked, "Our inquiry about Zachary Alexander's file meant nothing to the president?"
"Apparently not."
"Perhaps we need to increase the pressure." Which was precisely why he'd dispatched Charlie Smith.
"Davis has hitched his wagon to Stephanie Nelle."
"She's a lightweight."
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
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.