She shook her head in disbelief. "I have to go."
He didn't stop her.
"Have a nice day, Admiral."
And she slammed the door.
He quickly replayed the conversation in his mind. He'd done well, delivering his thoughts in a casual manner. The night before last, when he and Diane McCoy had talked, she'd been an ally. Of that he was sure. But things had changed.
Ramsey's briefcase sat on the rear seat. Inside was a sophisticated monitor used to determine if electronic devices were either recording or broadcasting nearby. Ramsey kept one of the monitors in his house, which was how he knew no one had been listening.
Hovey had canvassed the parking lot, using a series of mounted security cameras. The call to his phone had been a text message. HER CAR PARKED IN WEST LOT. ACCESSED. RECEIVER AND RECORDER INSIDE. The monitor in the backseat had also sent a signal, so the final part of the message had been clear. she's wired.
He exited the car and locked the doors.
Couldn't be Kane. He'd been too interested in benefits coming his way and could not risk even the possibility of exposure. The senator knew that a betrayal would mean quick and devastating consequences.
No.
This was pure Diane McCoy.
MALONEWATCHED AS WERNER UNTIED DOROTHEA FROM THE COLUMN and she yanked the tape from across her mouth.
"What were you thinking?" she yelled. "Are you insane?"
"He was going to shoot you," her husband calmly said. "I knew Herr Malone was here, with a gun."
Malone stood in the nave, his attention toward the upper gallery and Isabel and Ulrich Henn. "I see you're not as ignorant of things as you wanted me to believe."
"Those men were here to kill you," the old woman replied.
"And how did you know they'd be here?"
"I came to make sure my daughters were safe."
Not an answer, so he faced Christl. Her eyes gave no indication as to her thoughts. "I waited in the village for you to arrive, but you were way ahead of me."
"It wasn't hard to find the connection between Einhard and Brightness of God."
He pointed up. "But that doesn't explain how she and your sister knew."
"I spoke with Mother last night, after you left."
He walked toward Werner. "I agree with your wife. What you did was foolish."
"You needed his attention drawn. I didn't have a gun, so I did what I thought would work."
"He could have shot you," Dorothea said.
"That would have ended our marriage problem."
"I never said I wanted you dead."
Malone understood the love-hate of marriage. His own had been the same way, even years after they separated. Luckily he'd made peace with his ex, though it had taken effort. These two, though, seemed a long way from any resolution.
"I did what I had to," Werner said. "And I'd do it again."
Malone glanced back up at the choir. Henn fled his post at the balustrade and disappeared behind Isabel.
"Can we now find whatever there is to find?" Isabel asked.
Henn reappeared and he saw the man whisper something to his employer.
"Herr Malone," Isabel said. "There were four men sent. We thought the other two would not be a problem, but they just entered the gate."
FIFTY-EIGHT
10:40 AM
CHARLIE SMITH STUDIED THE FILE ON DOUGLAS SCOFIELD. HE'D prepped this target over a year ago, but, unlike the others, this man had always been labeled optional.
Not anymore.
Apparently plans had changed, so he needed to refresh his memory.
He'd left Charlotte, heading north on US 321 to Hickory, where he'd veered onto I-40 and sped west toward the Smoky Mountains. He'd checked on the Internet, verifying that information in the file remained accurate. Dr. Scofield was scheduled to speak at a symposium he hosted every winter, this year's on the grounds of the famous Biltmore Estate. The event seemed a gathering of weirdos. Ufology, ghosts, necrology, alien abductions, cryptozoology. Lots of bizarre subjects. Scofield, though a professor of anthropology at a Tennessee university, was deeply involved with pseudo-science, authoring a host of books and articles. Since Smith had not known when, or if, he'd be ordered to move on Douglas Scofield, he hadn't given much thought to the man's demise.
He was now parked outside a McDonald's, a hundred yards from the entrance to Biltmore Estate.
He casually scanned the file.
Scofield's interests varied. He loved hunting, spending many a winter weekend in search of deer and wild boar. A bow was his choice of weapon, though he owned an impressive collection of high-powered rifles. Smith still carried the one he'd taken from Herbert Rowland's house, lying in the trunk, loaded, just in case. Fishing and white-water rafting were more of Scofield's passions, though this time of year opportunities for either would be limited.
He'd downloaded the conference schedule, trying to digest any aspects that might prove useful. He was troubled by the previous night's escapade. Those two had not been there by accident. Though he savored every bit of the conceit that swirled inside him-after all, confidence was everything-there was no sense being foolish.
He needed to be prepared.
Two aspects of the conference schedule caught his attention, and two ideas formed.
One defensive, the other offensive.
He hated rush jobs, but wasn't about to concede to Ramsey that he couldn't handle it.
He grabbed his cell phone and found the number in Atlanta.
Thank goodness Georgia was nearby.
MALONE, REACTING TO ISABEL'S WARNING, SAID TO HER, "I ONLY have one round left."
She spoke to Henn, who reached beneath his coat, produced a handgun, and tossed it down. Malone caught the weapon. Two spare magazines followed.
"You come prepared," he said.
"Always," Isabel said.
He pocketed the magazines.
"Pretty bold of you to trust me earlier," Werner said.
"Like I had a choice."
"Still."
Malone glanced at Christl and Dorothea. "You three take cover somewhere." He motioned beyond the altar to the apse. "Back there looks good."
He watched as they hustled off then called up to Isabel, "Could we take at least one of them alive?"
Henn was already gone.
She nodded. "It depends on them."
He heard two shots from inside the church.
"Ulrich has engaged them," she said.
He rushed through the nave, back into the vestibule, and exited into the cloister. He spotted one of the men on the far side, scurrying between the arches. Daylight waned. The temperature had noticeably dropped.
More shots.
From outside the church.
STEPHANIE EXITED I-40 ONTO A BUSY BOULEVARD AND FOUND the main entrance to Biltmore Estate. She'd actually visited here twice before, once, like now, during the Christmas season. The estate comprised thousands of acres, the centerpiece being a 175,000-square-foot French Renaissance chateau, the largest privately owned residence in America. Originally a country retreat for George Vanderbilt, built in the late 1880s, it had evolved into a swanky tourist attraction, a glowing testament to America's lost Gilded Age.
A collection of brick and pebbledash houses, many with steep gabled roofs, timbered dormers, and wide porches crowded together to her left. Brick sidewalks lined cozy, tree-lined streets. Pine boughs and Christmas ribbons draped street lamps and a zillion white lights lit the fading afternoon for the holidays.
"Biltmore Village," she said. "Where estate workers and servants once lived. Vanderbilt built them their own town."
"Like something from Dickens."
"They made it seem like an English country village. Now it's shops and cafes."
"You know a lot about this place."
"It's one of my favorite spots."
She noticed a McDonald's, its architecture consistent with the picturesque surroundings. "I need a bathroom break." She slowed and turned into the restaurant's parking lot.