"You're out of control, Edwin. You wanted my help and I gave it to you. If you want to end up dead, fine, do it, but I'm not going to be there to watch."
"If I didn't know better, I'd think you actually care."
Charm wasn't going to work. "Edwin, you were right, there's somebody out there killing people. But this ain't the way, my friend. Not at all. Not even close."
Davis' cell phone chimed. He checked the display. "The president." He clicked on the unit. "Yes, sir."
She watched as Davis listened, then he handed the phone to her and said, "He wants to talk to you."
She grabbed the phone and said, "Your aide is nuts."
"Tell me what happened."
She gave him a quick recount.
After she finished Daniels said, "You're right-I need you to take control there. Edwin's too emotional. I know about Millicent. It's one reason I agreed to this whole thing. Ramsey did kill her, no doubt in my mind. I also believe he killed Admiral Sylvian and Commander Alexander. Proving that, of course, is an entirely different matter."
"We may be at a dead end," she said.
"We've been there before. Let's find a way to keep going."
"Why do I always seem to get in the middle of these things?"
Daniels chuckled. "It's a talent of yours. So that you'll know, I've been informed that two corpses were found in the cathedral at Aachen a few hours ago. The interior had been marred by gunfire. One of the men was shot, the other fell to his death. Both were contract help routinely used by our intelligence agencies. The Germans lodged an official inquiry with us for more information. The tidbit was included in my morning briefing packet. Might there be a connection here?"
She decided not to lie. "Malone is in Aachen."
"Why did I know you were going to say that."
"Something's happening there, and Cotton thinks it relates to what's happening here."
"He's probably right. I need you to stay on this, Stephanie."
She stared at Edwin Davis, who stood a few feet away, propped up by the papered wall.
The door to Herbert Rowland's room opened and a man clad in olive scrubs said, "He's awake and wants to speak with you."
"I have to go," she said to Daniels.
"Take care of my boy."
MALONE MANEUVERED THE RENTAL CAR UP THE INCLINED ROAD. Snow framed the rocky countryside on both sides of the asphalt, but the local authorities had done a great job of clearing the highway. He was deep into the Pyrenees, on the French side, near the Spanish border, heading for the village of Ossau.
He'd taken an early-morning train from Aachen to Toulouse then driven southwest into snowy highlands. When he'd Googled brightness of god einhard last night he'd immediately learned that the phrase referred to an eighth-century monastery located in the French mountains. The Romans who first came to the area built a vast city, a metropolis of the Pyrenees, which eventually became a center of culture and commerce. But in the fratricidal wars of the Frankish kings, during the sixth century, the city was sacked, burned, and destroyed. Not one inhabitant had been spared. No stone had been left resting upon another. Only a single rock stood amid naked fields, creating, as one chronicler of the time wrote, "a solitude of silence." One that lasted until Charlemagne arrived two hundred years later and ordered the construction of a monastery, which included a church, a chapter house, a cloister, and a village nearby. Einhard himself supervised the construction, recruiting the first bishop, Bertrand, who became famous for both his piety and civil administration. Bertrand died in 820 at the foot of the altar and was buried beneath what he'd named the Church of St. Lestelle.
The drive from Toulouse had taken him through a host of picturesque mountain villages. He'd visited the region several times, most recently last summer. Little differed among the countless locations save for names and dates. In Ossau a ragged line of houses straggled up winding streets, each faced with coarse stone and embellished with ornaments, coats of arms, and corbels. Only the peaks of the tiled roofs exposed a confusion of angles, like bricks tossed into the snow. Chimneys exhaled into the cold midday air. About a thousand people lived here and four inns accommodated visitors.
He motored into the center of town and parked. A narrow lane led back to an open square. People in warm clothes, with unreadable eyes, darted in and out of the shops. His watch read 9:40 AM.
He stared past the rooftops toward a clear morning sky, following the side of an escarpment upward to where a square tower rose from a rocky spur. Scraps of other towers on either side seemed to cling to it.
The ruins of St. Lestelle.
STEPHANIE STOOD BESIDE HERBERT ROWLAND'S HOSPITAL BED, AND devis opposite her. Rowland was groggy but awake.
"You saved my life?" Rowland asked in a voice not much more than a whisper.
"Mr. Rowland," Davis said. "We're with the government. We don't have much time. We need to ask you a few things."
"You saved my life?"
She threw Davis a glance that said, Let me do this. "Mr. Rowland, a man came to kill you tonight. We're not sure how, but he sent you into a diabetic coma. Luckily we were there. Do you feel up to answering questions?"
"Why would he want me dead?"
"You remember the Holden and Antarctica?"
She watched as he seemed to search his memory.
"A long time ago," Rowland said.
She nodded. "It was. But that's why he came to kill you."
"Who do you work for?"
"An intelligence agency." She pointed at Davis. "He's with the White House. Commander Alexander, who captained Holden, was murdered last night. One of the lieutenants who went ashore with you, Nick Sayers, died a few years ago. We thought you might be the next target and we were right."
"I don't know anything."
"What did you find in Antarctica?" Davis asked.
Rowland closed his eyes and she wondered if he'd dozed off. A few seconds later he opened them and shook his head. "I was ordered never to speak of that. Not to anyone. Admiral Dyals himself told me from his own mouth."
She knew about Raymond Dyals. Former chief of naval operations.
"He ordered NR-1A down there," Davis said.
That she didn't know.
"You know about the sub?" Rowland asked.
She nodded. "We've read the report on its sinking, and we talked to Commander Alexander before he died. So tell us what you know." She decided to make the stakes clear. "Your life may depend on it."
"I've got to stop drinking," Rowland said. "The doctor told me that it would eventually kill me. I take my insulin-"
"Did you last night?"
He nodded.
She was growing impatient. "The doctors told us earlier that you had no insulin in your blood. That's why you went into shock-that and the alcohol. But all that's irrelevant now. We need to know what you found in Antarctica."
FIFTY-TWO
MALONE INVESTIGATED OSSAU'S FOUR INNS AND CONCLUDED THAT L'Arlequin would be the correct choice-all mountain austerity on the outside but elegant on the inside, decorated for Christmas with aromatic pine, a carved nativity scene, and mistletoe over the doors. The proprietor pointed out the guest book-which, he explained, contained the names of all of the famous Pyrenean explorers, along with many nineteenth-and twentieth-century notables. Its restaurant served a wonderful monkfish casserole diced with ham, so he'd enjoyed an early lunch and lingered for over an hour, waiting, finally savoring a log-shaped cake made of chocolate and chestnuts. When his watch read eleven AM he decided that he may have chosen wrong.
He learned from the waiter that St. Lestelle closed for the winter, and opened only from May to August to accommodate visitors who flocked to the area to enjoy the summer highlands. Not much there, the man said, mostly ruins. Some restoration work occurred each year, financed by the local historical society and encouraged by the Catholic diocese. Other than that, the site remained quiet.
He decided a visit was in order. Night would come quickly, certainly by five, so he needed to take advantage of what daylight remained.