She had him, and knew it.
"This is no setup, Langford. It's not about getting you to admit anything. I don't need your admissions. It's about looking after me. I. Want. Money."
"And, for the sake of argument, if I agreed, what would stop you from shaking me down again?"
"Not one thing," she said through clenched teeth.
He allowed himself a grin, then a chuckle. "You are a devil."
She returned the compliment. "Seems we're perfect for each other."
He liked the amicable note in her voice. Never had he suspected that so much larceny coursed through her veins. Aatos Kane would like nothing more than to rid himself of his obligation, and even the hint of scandal would offer the senator a perfect opportunity. I'm willing to hold up my end, Kane would say, you're the one with problems.
And there'd be nothing he could do.
It would take reporters less than an hour to verify that his tour of duty in Brussels coincided with Millicent's. Edwin Davis had also been there and that romantic fool had a thing for Millicent. He'd known that at the time, but could not have cared less. Davis had been weak and unimportant. Not anymore. God knew where he was. He'd heard nothing about Davis in several days. But the woman sitting across from him was a different matter. She had a loaded gun, aimed straight at him, and knew where to shoot.
"Okay. I'll pay."
She reached into her jacket pocket and removed a sheet of paper. "Here's the bank and routing number. Make the payment, in full, within the next hour."
She tossed it on the desk.
He did not move.
She smiled. "Don't look so glum."
He said nothing.
"Tell you what," she said, "To show you my good faith, and my willingness to work with you on a permanent basis, once the payment is confirmed I'm going to give you something else you really want."
She stood from the chair.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Me. I'm yours tomorrow night. So long as I get paid in the next hour."
SEVENTY-NINE
12:50 AM
DOROTHEA WAS NOT HAPPY. THE PLANE BUMPED ITS WAY THROUGH rough air like a truck on a pitted dirt road, which brought back memories of her childhood and trips to the lodge with her father. They'd loved the outdoors. While Christl shunned guns and hunting, she'd loved both. It had been something she and her father had shared. Unfortunately, they'd only enjoyed a few seasons. She was ten when he died. Or, better put, when he never came back home again. And that sad thought scooped out another crater in the pit of her stomach, deepening an emptiness that seemed to never abate.
It was after her father's disappearance that she and Christl had drifted farther apart. Different friends, interests, tastes. Lives. How did two people who sprang from the same egg grow so distant?
Only one explanation made sense.
Their mother.
For decades she'd forced them to compete. And those battles had bred resentment. Dislike came next. An easy jump from there to hatred.
She sat strapped into her seat, bundled in her gear. Malone had been right about the clothing. This misery wouldn't end for at least another five hours. The crew had distributed box lunches when they'd boarded. Cheese roll, cookies, chocolate bar, a drumstick, and an apple. No way she could eat a bite. Just the thought of food made her sick. She pressed her parka tight into the seat's web backings and tried to be comfortable. An hour ago Malone had disappeared up into the flight deck. Henn and Werner were asleep, but Christl seemed wide awake.
Perhaps she was anxious, too.
This flight was the worst of her life, and not just from the discomfort. They were flying to their destiny. Was something there? If so, was it good or bad?
After suiting up, they'd each packed their insulated rucksacks. She'd brought only a change of clothes, a toothbrush, some toiletries, and an automatic pistol. Her mother had sneaked it to her in Ossau. Since this was not a commercial flight, there'd been no security inspections. Though she resented allowing her mother to make yet another decision for her, she felt better with the gun nearby.
Christl's head turned.
Their eyes met in the half-light.
What a bitter piece of irony that they were here, on this plane, thrust together. Would speaking to her do any good?
She decided to try.
She unbuckled her harness and rose from the seat. She crossed the narrow aisle and sat beside her sister. "We have to stop this," she said over the noise.
"I plan to. Once we find what I know is there." Christl's expression was as cold as the plane's interior.
She tried again. "None of that matters."
"Not to you. It never did. All you cared about was passing the wealth to your precious Georg."
The words pierced her, and she wanted to know, "Why did you resent him?"
"He was all that I could never give, dear sister."
She caught the bitterness as conflicting emotions collided inside her. Dorothea had wept by Georg's coffin for two days trying, with everything she possessed, to release his memory. Christl had come to the funeral, but left quickly. Not once had her sister offered any condolences.
Nothing.
Georg's death had signaled a turning point in Dorothea's life. Everything changed. Her marriage, her family. And, most important, herself. She did not like what she'd become, but had readily accepted anger and resentment as substitutes for a child she'd adored.
"You're barren?" she asked.
"You care?"
"Does Mother know you can't have children?" she asked.
"What does it matter? This isn't about children anymore. It's about the Oberhauser legacy. What this family believed."
She could see that this effort was futile. The gulf between them was far too wide to either fill or bridge.
She started to rise.
Christl cracked her hand down on her wrist. "So I didn't say I was sorry when he died. At least you know what it is like to have a child."
The pettiness of the comment stunned her. "God help any child you would have had. You could have never cared for one. You're incapable of that kind of love."
"Seems you didn't do such a great job. Yours is dead."
Damn her.
Her right hand formed a fist and her arm powered upward, smashing into Christl's face.
RAMSEY SAT AT HIS DESK AND PREPARED HIMSELF FOR WHAT LAY ahead. Surely more interviews and press attention. Admiral Sylvian's funeral was tomorrow, at Arlington National Cemetery, and he reminded himself to make mention of that sad event to every interviewer. Focus on the fallen comrade. Be humble that you've been chosen to follow in his footsteps. Regret the loss of a fellow flag officer. The funeral would be a full-dress affair with honors. The military certainly knew how to bury its own. They'd done it often enough.
His cell phone rang. An international number. Germany. About time.
"Good evening, Admiral," a gravelly woman's voice said.
"Frau Oberhauser. I've been expecting your call."
"And how did you know I would call?"
"Because you're an anxious old bitch who likes to be in control."
She chuckled. "That I am. Your men did a good job. Malone is dead."
"I prefer to wait till they report that fact to me."
"I'm afraid that's going to be impossible. They're dead, as well."
"Then you're the one with a problem. I have to have confirmation."
"Have you heard anything about Malone in the last twelve hours? Any reports of what he might be doing?"
No, he hadn't.
"I saw him die."
"Then we have nothing more to say."
"Except you owe me an answer to my question. Why did my husband never come back?"
What the hell? Tell her. "The submarine malfunctioned."