"This is going to take a while," she said. "It's not the fastest scanner there is."
He held the book from the church. They'd thumbed through all of the pages, which seemed a complete translation of each letter of the language of heaven into its Latin counterpart.
"You realize this is not going to be exact," she said. "Some of the letters could have double meanings. There could be no corresponding Latin letter or sound. That sort of thing."
"Your grandfather did it."
She eyed him with an odd mixture of annoyance and gratitude. "I can also instantly convert Latin to German or English. I didn't really know what to expect. I was never quite sure if Grandfather was to be believed. A few months ago Mother allowed me access to some of his notebooks. Father's, too. But they told me little. Obviously, she withheld what she deemed important. The maps, for example. The books from Einhard's and Charlemagne's graves. So there was always a nagging doubt that Grandfather may have simply been a fool."
He wondered about her openness. Refreshing. But also suspect.
"You saw all that Nazi memorabilia he collected. He was obsessed. The odd thing is that he was spared the disasters of the Third Reich, yet he seemed to regret not being a part of their downfall. In the end, he was just bitter. It was almost a blessing he lost his mind."
"But he now has another chance to be proven right."
The machine dinged, signaling it was ready.
She accepted the book from him. "And I plan to give him every chance. What are you going to do while I work?"
He laid back on the bed. "I intend to sleep. Wake me when you're done."
RAMSEY MADE SURE DIANE MCCOY LEFT FORT LEE AND HEADED back to Washington. He did not revisit the warehouse so as not to draw any more attention, explaining to the base commander that he'd borne witness to a minor territorial dispute between the White House and the navy. The explanation seemed to have satisfied any questions that may have arisen from so many high-level visits over the past couple of days.
He glanced at his watch. 8:50 PM.
He sat at a table in a small trattoria on the outskirts of Washington. Good Italian food, understated setting, excellent wine bar. None of which he cared about tonight.
He sipped his wine.
A woman entered the restaurant. Her tall, slender frame was draped by a stitched-velvet aletta coat and dark vintage jeans. A beige cashmere scarf wrapped her neck. She threaded a path around the tightly packed tables and sat with him.
The woman from the map store.
"You did good with the senator," he told her. "Right on the mark."
She acknowledged his compliment with a nod.
"Where is she?" he asked. He'd ordered surveillance on Diane McCoy.
"You're not going to like it."
A new chill sheathed his spine.
"She's with Kane. Right now."
"Where?"
"They roamed the Lincoln Memorial, then walked the basin to the Washington Monument."
"Cold night for a stroll."
"Tell me about it. I have a man with her now. She's headed home."
All disturbing. The only connection between McCoy and Kane would be him. He'd thought her placated, but he may have underestimated her resolve.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked. Hovey.
"I need to take this," he said. "Could you wait near the door?"
She understood and left.
"What is it?" he said into the phone.
"The White House is on the line. They want to speak with you."
Nothing unusual. "So?"
"It's the president."
That was unusual.
"Connect us."
A few seconds later he heard the booming voice the whole world knew. "Admiral, I hope you're having a good night."
"It's cold, Mr. President."
"You got that right. And getting colder. I'm calling because Aatos Kane wants you on the Joint Chiefs. He says you're the man for the job."
"That all depends if you agree, sir." He kept his voice low, below the level of muffled conversations around him.
"I do. Thought about it all day, but I agree. Would you like the job?"
"I'd willingly serve wherever you like."
"You know how I feel about the Joint Chiefs, but let's be real. Nothing's going to change, so I need you there."
"I'm honored. When would this be made public?"
"I'll have your name leaked within the hour. You'll be the morning news story. Get ready, Admiral-it's a different ballpark than naval intelligence."
"I'll be ready, sir."
"Glad to have you aboard."
And Daniels was gone.
A breathless moment passed. His defenses dropped. His fears abated. He'd done it. Whatever Diane McCoy was doing mattered not.
He was now the appointee.
DOROTHEA LAY IN THE BED, TREMBLING IN THAT STATE BETWEEN sleep and wakefulness where thoughts could sometimes be controlled. What had she done, making love to Werner again? That was something she'd never thought possible-a part of her life that had surely ended.
Maybe not.
Two hours ago she'd heard the door for Malone's room open, then close. A murmur of voices seeped through the thin walls, but nothing she could decipher. What was her sister doing in the middle of the night?
Werner lay pressed beside her in the narrow bed. He was right. They were married and their heir would be legitimate. But having a baby at age forty-eight? Perhaps that was the price she would be required to pay. Werner and her mother had apparently forged some sort of alliance, strong enough that Sterling Wilkerson had to die-strong enough to transform Werner into some semblance of a man.
More voices leaked from next door.
She rose from the bed and approached the connecting wall, but could understand nothing. She padded lightly across the thinly carpeted flooring to the window. Fat snowflakes fell in silence. All of her life she'd lived in mountains and snow. She'd learned to hunt, shoot, and ski at an early age. She wasn't afraid of much-only failure, and her mother. She rested her naked body against the chilly windowsill, frustrated and mournful, and stared at her husband, curled under the comforter.
She wondered if her bitterness toward him was nothing more than grief overflowing for their dead son. For a long time afterward the days and nights had assumed a nightmarish quality, a sensation of rushing forward with no purpose or destination in view.
A chill stole the room, and her courage.
She folded her arms across her bare breasts.
It seemed with each passing year that she became more bitter, more dissatisfied. She missed Georg. But maybe Werner was right. Maybe it was time to live. To love. To be loved.
She flexed her legs in a long stretch. The room next door had gone quiet. She turned and stared back out the window at the snow-pelted darkness.
She caressed her flat belly.
Another baby.
Why not.
SEVENTY-ONE
STEPHANIE AND EDWIN DAVIS REENTERED THE INN ON BILTMORE Estate. Davis had risen from his brawl, caught in the clutch of pain, his face bruised, but his ego intact. Chinos was in custody, albeit unconscious at a local hospital with a concussion and multiple contusions from the beating. The local police had escorted the ambulance and would remain there until the Secret Service arrived, which should be within the hour. Doctors had already told the police it would be morning before the man could be questioned. The chateau had been sealed and more police were combing its interior seeing what, if anything, Chinos had left behind. Tapes from security cameras located throughout the house were being carefully reviewed in search of more information.
Davis had said little since he'd climbed from the pool. A call to the White House had confirmed both their identities and credentials, so they hadn't been forced to answer questions. Which was good. She could see that Davis was not in the mood.