"You sound like you know him."
"More than I ever wanted to."
"Edwin, stop," Millicent said.
He was holding the phone, punching the numbers for the local police. She slipped the handset from his grasp and laid it in the cradle.
"Leave it be," she said.
He stared into her dark eyes. Her gorgeous long brown hair hung tousled. Her face seemed as delicate as ever, but troubled. In so many ways they were alike. Smart, dedicated, loyal. Only in race were they different-she a beautiful example of African genes, he the quintessential white Anglo-Saxon Protestant. He'd been attracted to her within days of being assigned as Captain Langford Ramsey's State Department liaison, working out of NATO headquarters in Brussels.
He gently caressed the fresh bruise on her thigh. "He struck you." He fought the next word. "Again."
"It's his way."
She was a lieutenant, born of a navy family, fourth generation, and Langford Ramsey's aide for the past two years. Ramsey's lover for one of those.
"Is he worth it?" he asked.
She retreated from the phone, clutching her bathrobe tight. She'd called half an hour ago and asked him to come to her apartment. Ramsey had just left. He didn't know why he always came when she called.
"He doesn't mean to do it," she said. "His temper gets the best of him. He doesn't like to be refused."
His gut hurt at the thought of them together, but he listened, knowing she had to relieve herself of false guilt. "He needs to be reported."
"It would solve nothing. He's a man on the rise, Edwin. A man with friends. No one would care what I have to say."
"I care."
She appraised him with anxious eyes. "He told me that he would never do it again."
"He said that last time."
"It was my fault. I pushed him. I shouldn't have, but I did."
She sat on the sofa and motioned for him to sit beside her. When he did, she laid her head on his shoulder and, within a few minutes, drifted off to sleep.
"She died six months later," Davis said in a distant voice.
Stephanie kept silent.
"Her heart stopped. The authorities in Brussels said it was probably genetic." Davis paused. "Ramsey had beaten her again, three days before. No marks. Just a few well-placed punches." He went quiet. "I asked to be transferred after that."
"Did Ramsey know how you felt about her?"
Davis shrugged. "I'm not sure how I felt. But I doubt he'd care. I was thirty-eight years old, working my way up in the State Department. The foreign service is a lot like the military. You take the assignments as they come. But like I said earlier, about the fake brother, I told myself if I ever was in a position to stick it up Ramsey's ass, I would."
"What does Ramsey have to do with this?"
Davis laid his head back.
The plane swooped in for a landing.
"Everything," he said.
EIGHTEEN
10:30 PM
WILKERSON DOWNSHIFTED THE VOLVO AND SLOWED. THE HIGH way was descending, on its way into a broad Alpine valley cut between more towering ranges. Snow appeared from the darkness, swept free from the windshield by the wipers. He was nine miles north of Fussen, in black Bavarian woods, not far from Linderhof, one of mad King Ludwig II's fairy-tale castles.
He came to a stop and turned onto a rocky lane that wound farther into the trees, a dreamy stillness surrounding him. The farmhouse came into view. Typical for the region. Gabled roof, bright colors, walls of stone, mortar, and wood. Green shutters for the ground-floor windows hung shut, just as he'd left them earlier in the day.
He parked and exited the car.
Snow crunched beneath his soles as he walked to the front door. Inside, he switched on a few lamps and stoked the fire he'd left smoldering in the hearth. He then returned to the car and toted the boxes from Fussen inside, storing them in a kitchen closet.
That task was now completed.
He retreated to the front door and stared out into the snowy night.
He would have to report to Ramsey shortly. He'd been told that within a month he would be reassigned to Washington, inside naval intelligence headquarters, at a high administrative level. His name would be submitted in the next batch of officers hoping for flag rank and Ramsey had promised that, by then, he would be in a position to ensure a successful outcome.
But would that be the case?
He had no choice but to hope. Seemed his whole life lately was dependent on others.
And nothing about that seemed good.
Burning embers settled in the hearth with a hiss. He needed to retrieve a few fresh logs from the pile on the side of the house. A strong fire would be needed later.
He opened the front door.
An explosion rocked the night.
Instinctively, he shielded his face from a sudden flash of intense light and a quick burst of searing heat. He looked up to see the Volvo ablaze, little left but the burning remnant of the undercarriage as flames devoured metal.
He spied movement in the darkness. Two forms. Headed toward him. Carrying weapons.
He slammed the door.
Glass in one of the windows shattered and something thudded onto the plank floor. His gaze locked on the object. A grenade. Soviet configuration. He lunged forward into the next room just as the ordnance exploded. The lodge's walls were apparently well constructed-the partition between the rooms diffused the blast-but he heard wind swirling in what was once a cozy den, the explosion surely annihilating an exterior wall.
He managed to come to his feet and crouched down.
Voices could be heard. Outside. Two men. One on either side of the house.
"Check for a body," one of them said in German.
He heard pottering through the black rubble, and a flashlight beam pierced the darkness. The assailants were making no effort to mask their presence. He steadied himself against the wall.
"Anything?" one of the men asked.
"Nein."
"Move farther in."
He braced himself.
A narrow beam of light plunged past the doorway. Then the flashlight itself entered the room, followed by a gun. He waited for the man to step inside, then grabbed for the weapon as he slammed his fist into the man's jaw and wrenched the weapon free.
The man staggered forward, flashlight still in hand. Wilkerson wasted no time. As his assailant regained his balance, he fired once into the man's chest and readied the gun, as a new beam of light probed in his direction.
A black object swished through the air and slammed to the floor.
Another grenade.
He dove over the top of a settee and rolled the sofa onto him just as the bomb exploded and debris rained down. More windows and wall were blown out and the night's bitter cold invaded. The triangle formed by the upended settee had shielded him from the blast, and he thought he'd escaped the worst until he heard a crack and one of the ceiling beams crashed onto the settee.
Luckily, he wasn't pinned.
The man with the flashlight crept closer.
In the attack, Wilkerson had lost the gun, so he searched the darkness. Spotting it, he wiggled free and alligator-crawled forward.
His assailant entered the room, picking his way over the debris.
A bullet ricocheted off the floor just ahead of him.
He scampered behind more rubble as another bullet searched for him. He was running out of options. The gun lay too far away. Cold wind parched his face. The flashlight beam found him.
Damn. He cursed himself, then Langford Ramsey.
A gun blast erupted.
The flashlight beam jiggled, then its rays scattered in all directions.
A body thudded to the floor.
Then silence.
He pushed himself up and spied a darkened form-tall, shapely, feminine-standing in the kitchen doorway, the outline of a shotgun in her arms.
"Are you all right?" Dorothea Lindauer asked.
"Nice shot."
"I saw you were having trouble."
He walked over to Lindauer and stared at her through the darkness.