"Our friend from last night may be there, too."
"We can only hope."
Another ding singled an answer to her second inquiry, so she opened the reply and read:
The navy leases warehouse space at Fort Lee, Virginia. They have since World War II. Presently, they control three buildings. Only one is high security and contains a refrigerated compartment installed in 1972. Access is restricted by numeric code and fingerprint verification through Office of Naval Intelligence. I managed to view its visitor log stored on the navy's database. Interestingly, it's not classified. Only one non-Fort Lee personnel entered during the last 180 days. Admiral Langford Ramsey, yesterday.
"Still want to argue with me?" Davis asked. "You know I'm right."
"All the more reason for us to get help."
Davis shook his head. "The president won't let us."
"Wrong. You won't let us."
Davis' face conveyed challenge and submission. "I have to do this. Maybe you have to do it now, too. Remember, Malone's father was on that boat."
"Which Cotton should know."
"Let's get him some answers first."
"Edwin, you could have been killed last night."
"But I wasn't."
"Revenge is the quickest way to get yourself killed. Why don't you let me handle this? I have agents."
They remained alone in a small conference room the hospital administrator had provided.
"That's not going to happen," he said.
She could see arguing was pointless. Forrest Malone had been on that sub-and Davis was right, that was enough incentive for her.
She shut down the laptop and stood.
"I'd say we have about a three-hour ride to Asheville."
"WHO ARE YOU?" MALONE ASKED THE MAN.
"You scared me to death."
"Answer my question."
"Werner Lindauer."
He made the connection. "Dorothea's husband?"
The man nodded. "My passport's in my pocket."
No time for that. He withdrew the gun and yanked his captive back into the side room, out of the gallery. "What are you doing here?"
"Dorothea walked here three hours ago. I came to see about her."
"How did she find this place?"
"You apparently don't know Dorothea that well. She doesn't explain herself. Christl is here, too."
That, he had expected. He'd waited in the hotel, believing she either knew of this place or would locate it the same way he'd managed.
"She came up here before Dorothea."
He turned his attention back into the cloister. Time to see what was inside the church. He motioned with the gun. "You first. To the right and into that doorway at the end."
"Is that wise?"
"Nothing about this is smart."
He followed Werner into the gallery, then through the double archway at its end, and immediately sought cover behind a thick column. A wide nave, made to seem narrow by more columns that extended its length, stretched before him. The columns turned in a semicircle behind the altar, following the curve of the apse. Bare walls on either side were high, the aisles broad. No decoration or ornamentation anywhere, the church more ruin than building. The wind's haunting music sounded through bare window frames partitioned by stone crosses. He spotted the altar, a pillar of pitted granite, but what sat before it drew his attention.
Two people. Gagged.
One on either side, on the floor, their arms tied behind them around a column.
Dorothea and Christl.
FIFTY-SIX
7:24 AM
RAMSEY MARCHED BACK TOWARD HIS OFFICE. HE WAS WAITING FOR a report from France and had made clear to the men overseas that he wanted to hear only that Cotton Malone was dead. After that he'd turn his attention to Isabel Oberhauser, but he had not, as yet, decided how best to handle that problem. He'd thought about her during the entire briefing he'd just attended, recalling something he'd once heard. I've been right and I've been paranoid and it's better being paranoid.
He agreed.
Luckily he knew a lot about the old woman.
She married Dietz Oberhauser in the late 1950s. He was the son of a wealthy, aristocratic Bavarian family, she the daughter of a local mayor. Her father had been associated with the Nazis during the war, used by the Americans in the years after. She assumed full control of the Oberhauser fortune in 1972, after Dietz disappeared. Eventually, she had him declared legally dead. This activated his will, which left everything to her, in trust, for the benefit of their daughters. Before Ramsey had dispatched Wilkerson to make contact, he'd studied that will. Interestingly, the decision as to when financial control passed to the daughters had been left entirely to Isabel. Thirty-eight years had elapsed and still she remained in charge. Wilkerson had reported that great animosity existed between the sisters, which might explain a few things, but until today the Oberhauser family discord had meant little to him.
He knew that Isabel had long been interested in Blazek and made no secret of her desire to learn what had happened. She'd retained lawyers who'd tried to access information through official channels, and when that failed, she attempted covertly to learn what she could through bribery. His counterintelligence people had detected the attempts and reported them. That's when he assumed personal responsibility and assigned Wilkerson.
Now his man was dead. How?
He knew Isabel employed an East German named Ulrich Henn. The background report noted that Henn's maternal grandfather had commanded one of Hitler's reception camps and supervised the tossing of 28,000 Ukrainians down a ravine. At his war crimes trial he denied nothing and proudly stated, I was there. Which made it easy for the Allies to hang him.
Henn was raised by a stepfather who assimilated his new family into communist society. Henn served in the East German military, former Stasi, his current benefactor not all that dissimilar from his communist bosses, both making decisions in the calculating manner of an accountant, then executing them with the unquestioning remorse of a despot.
Isabel was indeed a formidable woman.
She possessed money, power, and nerve. But her weakness was her husband. She wanted to know why he died. Her obsession had been of no real concern until Stephanie Nelle accessed the file on NR-1A and sent it across the Atlantic to Cotton Malone.
Now it was a problem.
One that he hoped was being solved, right now, in France.
MALONE WATCHED AS CHRISTL SPOTTED HIM AND STRUGGLED against her restraints. Tape sealed her mouth. She shook her head.
Two men showed themselves from the behind the columns. The one on the left was tall, lanky, and dark-haired, the other stout and fair-headed. He wondered how many more were lurking.
"We came for you," Dark said to him, "and found these two already here."
Malone stayed behind a column, gun ready. They didn't know he was limited to three rounds.
"And why am I so interesting?"
"Beats the hell out of me. I'm just glad you are."
Fair brought a gun barrel close to Dorothea Lindauer's skull.
"We'll start with her," Dark said.
He was thinking, assessing, noting that there'd been no mention of Werner. He faced Lindauer and whispered, "Ever shot a man?"
"No."
"Can you?"
He hesitated. "If I had to. For Dorothea."
"Can you shoot?"
"I've hunted all my life."
He decided to add to his growing resume of stupid things and handed Werner the automatic.
"What do you want me to do?" Werner asked.
"Shoot one of them."
"Which one?"
"I don't care. Just shoot, before they shoot me."
Werner's head bobbed in understanding.
Malone sucked a few deep breaths, steeled himself, and stepped away from the column, his hands exposed. "Okay, here I am."
Neither of the assailants moved. Apparently, he'd caught them by surprise. Which had been the whole idea. Fair withdrew his gun from Dorothea Lindauer and completely emerged from behind his column. He was young, alert, and on guard, automatic rifle leveled.