The Charlemagne Pursuit (16 page)

Like last night.

She stepped to the bed and roused him.

He awoke and smiled.

“It’s nearly noon,” she said.

“I was tired.”

“We need to leave.”

He noticed the contents of the boxes scattered across the floor. “Where are we going?”

“Hopefully, to get a step ahead of Christl.”

THIRTY-TWO

WASHINGTON, DC
8:10 AM

R
AMSEY WAS ENERGIZED
. H
E’D CHECKED MEDIA WEBSITES FOR
Jacksonville, Florida, and was pleased to see a report on a fatal fire at the home of Zachary Alexander, a retired navy commander. Nothing unusual about the blaze, and preliminary reports had targeted the cause as an electrical short due to faulty wiring. Charlie Smith had clearly crafted two masterpieces yesterday. He hoped today would be equally productive.

The morning was mid-Atlantic crisp and sunny. He was strolling the Mall, near the Smithsonian, the sparkling white Capitol looming clear on its hilly perch. He loved a frosty winter’s day. With Christmas only thirteen days away and Congress not in session, the business of government had slowed, everything waiting for a new year and the start of another legislative season.

A slow news time, which probably explained the extensive coverage the death of Admiral Sylvian was receiving in the media. Daniels’ recent criticisms of the Joint Chiefs had made the untimely death more timely. Ramsey had listened to the president’s comments with amusement, knowing that nobody in Congress would be headstrong about changing that command. True, the Joint Chiefs ordered little, but when they spoke people listened. Which probably explained, more than anything else, the White House’s resentment. Particularly Daniels, a lame duck, wobbling toward the climax of his political career.

Ahead, he spotted a short, dapper man dressed in a slim-fitting cashmere overcoat, his pale, cherubic face reddened from the cold. Clean-shaven, he had bristly dark hair that lay close to his scalp. He stomped the pavement in an apparent effort to rid himself of a chill. Ramsey glanced at his watch and estimated the envoy had been waiting for at least fifteen minutes.

He approached.

“Admiral, do you know how friggin’ cold it is out here?”

“Twenty-eight degrees.”

“And you couldn’t be on time?”

“If I needed to be on time, then I would have been.”

“I’m not in the mood for rank pulling. Not in the mood at all.”

Interesting how being the chief of staff for a US senator bestowed such courage. He wondered if Aatos Kane had told this acolyte to be an ass—or was this improvisation?

“I’m here because the senator said you had something to say.”

“Does he still want to be president?” All of Ramsey’s previous contacts with Kane had been shuttled through this emissary.

“He does. And he will be.”

“Spoken with the confidence of a staffer firmly grasping the coattails of his boss.”

“Every shark has its remora.”

He smiled. “That it does.”

“What do you want, Admiral?”

He resented the younger man’s haughtiness. Time to put this man in his place. “I want you to shut up and listen.”

He noticed the eyes studying him with the calculated gaze of a political pro.

“When Kane was in trouble, he asked for help, and I gave him what he wanted. No questions, it was done.”

He waited a moment before speaking again as three men rushed by.

“I might add,” he said, “that I violated a multitude of laws, which I’m sure you could not care less about.”

His listener was not a man of age, wisdom, or wealth. But he was ambitious and understood the value of political favors.

“The senator is aware of what you did, Admiral. Though, as you know, we were not aware of the full extent of what you planned.”

“Nor did you reject the benefits afterward.”

“Granted. What is it you want now?”

“I want Kane to tell the president that I’m to be named to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. In Sylvian’s vacancy.”

“And you think the president can’t tell the senator no?”

“Not without severe consequences.”

The agitated face staring back at him lightened with a fleeting smile. “It’s not going to happen.”

Had he heard right?

“The senator assumed that’s what you wanted. Sylvian’s corpse probably wasn’t even cold when you made that call earlier.” The younger man hesitated. “Which makes us wonder.”

He spied mistrust in the man’s observant eyes.

“After all, as you say, you performed us a
service
once, with no residuals.”

He ignored the implications and asked, “What do you mean,
not going to happen
?”

“You’re too controversial. Too much of a lightning rod. Too many in the navy either don’t like you or don’t trust you. Endorsing your appointment would have fallout. And as I mentioned, we’re making a White House run, starting early next year.”

He realized that the classic Washington two-step had started. A famous dance that politicians like Aatos Kane were experts at performing. Every pundit agreed. Kane’s White House run seemed plausible. In fact, he was his party’s leading contender, with little competition. Ramsey knew the senator had been quietly amassing pledges that now totaled in the millions. Kane was a personable, engaging man, comfortable in front of a crowd and a camera. He was neither a true conservative nor a liberal, but a mixture that the press loved to tag
middle of the road.
He’d been married to the same woman for thirty years with not a hint of scandal. He was almost too perfect. Except, of course, for that favor Kane had once needed.

“Fine way to thank your friends,” Ramsey said.

“Who said you were our friend?”

A weariness creased his forehead that he quickly masked. He should have seen it coming. Arrogance. The most common illness afflicting longtime politicians. “No, you’re right. That was presumptuous of me.”

The man’s face lost its impassive look. “Get this straight, Admiral. Senator Kane thanks you for what you did. We would have preferred another way, but he still appreciates it. He repaid you, though, when he blocked the navy from transferring you. Not once, but twice. We sent a full blitz into the backfield on that one. That’s what you wanted and that’s what we gave you. You don’t own Aatos Kane. Not now. Not ever. What you’re asking is impossible. In less than sixty days the senator will be an announced candidate for the White House. You’re an admiral who should retire. Do it. Enjoy a well-earned rest.”

He submerged any defensiveness and simply nodded in understanding.

“And one more thing. The senator resented your call this morning demanding that we meet. He sent me to tell you that this relationship is over. No more visits, no more calls. Now I have to go.”

“Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”

“Look, Admiral, I know you’re pissed. I would be, too. But you’re not going on the Joint Chiefs. Retire. Become a Fox TV analyst and tell the world what a bunch of idiots we are. Enjoy life.”

He said nothing and simply watched as the prick paraded off, surely proud of his stellar performance, eager to report how he’d put the head of naval intelligence in his place.

He walked to an empty bench and sat.

Cold seeped from its slats through his overcoat.

Senator Aatos Kane had no idea. Neither did his chief of staff.

But they were both about to find out.

THIRTY-THREE

MUNICH, GERMANY
1:00 PM

W
ILKERSON HAD SLEPT WELL, SATISFIED BOTH WITH HOW HE’D
handled himself at the lodge and with Dorothea afterward. Having access to money, few responsibilities, and a beautiful woman weren’t bad substitutes for not being an admiral.

Provided, of course, that he could stay alive.

In preparation for this assignment, he’d back-checked the Oberhauser family thoroughly. Assets in the billions, and not old money—ancient money that had lasted through centuries of political upheavals. Opportunists? Surely. Their family crest seemed to explain it all. A dog clutching a rat in its mouth, encased inside a crested cauldron. What myriad contradictions. Much like the family itself. But how else could they have survived?

Time, though, had taken a toll.

Dorothea and her sister were all the Oberhausers left.

Both beautiful, high-strung creatures. Nearing fifty. Identical in appearance, though each tried hard to distinguish herself. Dorothea had pursued business degrees and actively worked with her mother in the family concerns. She’d married in her early twenties and birthed a son, but he was killed five years ago, a week after his twentieth birthday, in a car accident. All reports indicated that she changed after that. Hardened. Became enslaved to deep anxieties and unpredictable moods. To shoot a man with a shotgun, as she’d done last night, then make love afterward with such an unfettered intensity, proved that dichotomy.

Business had never interested Christl, nor had marriage or children. He’d met her only once, at a social function Dorothea and her husband had attended when he’d first made contact. She was unassuming. An academician, like her father and grandfather, studying oddities, mulling the endless possibilities of legend and myth. Both of her master’s theses had been on obscure connections between mythical ancient civilizations—like Atlantis, he’d found after reading both—and developing cultures. Fantasy, all of it. But the male Oberhausers had been fascinated by such ridiculousness, and Christl seemed to have inherited their curiosity. Her childbearing days were over, so he wondered what would happen after Isabel Oberhauser died. Two women who did not like each other—neither one of whom could leave blood heirs—would inherit it all.

A fascinating scenario with endless possibilities.

He was outside, in the cold, not far from their hotel, a magnificent establishment that would satisfy the whims of any king. Dorothea had called from the car last night to speak with the concierge, and a suite had been waiting when they arrived.

The sunny Marienplatz, which he now strolled, was crowded with tourists. A strange hush hung over the square, broken only by the scuff of soles and a murmur of voices. Within sight were department stores, cafés, the central market, a royal palace, and churches. The massive
rathaus
dominated one perimeter, its animated façade streaked with the darkened effects of centuries. He purposefully avoided the museum quarter and headed for one of several bakeries that were enjoying a brisk business. He was hungry and some chocolate pastries would be lovely.

Booths decorated with fragrant pine boughs dotted the square, part of the city’s Christmas market, which stretched out of sight down the old town’s busy main thoroughfare. He’d heard about the millions who came each year for the festivities but doubted he and Dorothea would have time to attend. She was on a mission. He was, too, which made him think of work. He needed to check with Berlin and maintain a presence for his employees’ sake. So he found his cell phone and dialed.

“Captain Wilkerson,” his yeoman said, after answering. “I was told to direct any call from you directly to Commander Bishop.”

Before he could ask why, the voice of his second in command came on the line. “Captain, I have to ask where you are.”

His radar went to full alert. Never did Bryan Bishop call him
Captain,
unless other people were listening.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

“Sir, this call is being recorded. You’ve been relieved of all duties and declared a level-three security risk. Our orders are to locate and detain you.”

He grabbed hold of his emotions. “Who gave those orders?”

“Office of the Director. Issued by Captain Hovey, signed by Admiral Ramsey.”

He’d actually been the one who recommended Bishop’s promotion to commander. He was a compliant officer who followed orders with unquestioned zeal. Great then, bad now.

“Am I being sought?” he asked, and then a realization slammed into him and he clicked off the phone before hearing the answer.

He stared at the unit. They came with a built-in GPS locator for emergency tracking. Damn. That’s how they’d found him last night. He hadn’t been thinking. Of course, he’d had no idea before the attack that he was a target. After, he’d been rattled and Ramsey—the SOB—had rocked him to sleep, buying time to dispatch another team.

His daddy had been right. Can’t trust a one of them.

Suddenly a city of 120 square miles, with millions of inhabitants, transformed from a refuge into a prison. He glanced around at the people, all huddled in thick coats, darting in every direction.

And no longer wanted any pastries.

R
AMSEY LEFT THE
N
ATIONAL
M
ALL AND DROVE INTO CENTRAL
Washington, near Dupont Circle. Normally he used Charlie Smith for his special tasks, but that was currently impossible. Luckily he kept a variety of assets—all capable in their own way—on a call list. He had a reputation of paying well and promptly, which helped when he needed things done quickly.

He wasn’t the only admiral jockeying for David Sylvian’s post. He knew of at least five others who were surely on the phone to congressmen as soon as they’d heard Sylvian had died. Paying the proper respects and burying the man would come in a few days—but Sylvian’s successor would be chosen in the next few hours, as slots that high on the military food chain did not stay vacant long.

He should have known Aatos Kane would be a problem. The senator had been around a long time. He knew the lay of the land. But experience came with liabilities. Men like Kane counted on the fact that opponents did not possess either the nerve or the means to exploit those liabilities.

He suffered from neither deficiency.

He grabbed a curbside parking spot just as another car was leaving. At least something had gone right today. He clicked seventy-five cents into the meter and walked through the chill until he found Capitol Maps.

An interesting store.

Nothing but maps from every corner of the globe, including an impressive travel and guidebook collection. He wasn’t in the market for cartography today. Instead he needed to speak to the owner.

He entered and spotted her talking to a customer.

She caught a glimpse, but nothing in her countenance revealed any recognition. He assumed the considerable fees he’d paid her through the years for contract services had helped finance the store, but they’d never discussed the matter. One of his rules. Assets were tools, treated the same as a hammer, saw, or screwdriver. Use them. Then put them away. Most of the people he employed understood that rule. Those who didn’t were never called again.

The store owner finished with her customer and casually strolled over. “Looking for a particular map? We have a large assortment.”

He glanced around. “That you do. Which is good, because I need a lot of help today.”

W
ILKERSON REALIZED THAT HE WAS BEING FOLLOWED.
A
MAN AND
a woman lurked a hundred feet behind him, most likely alerted by his contact with Berlin. They’d made no move to close, which meant one of two things. They wanted Dorothea and were waiting for him to lead them to her, or he was being herded.

Neither prospect was pleasant.

He elbowed a path through a thick knot of midday Munich shoppers and had no idea how many other adversaries were waiting ahead. A level-three security risk? That meant they would contain with whatever force necessary—including deadly. Worse, they’d had hours to prepare. He knew the Oberhauser operation was important—more personal than professional—and Ramsey had the conscience of an executioner. If threatened, he’d react. At the moment he certainly appeared to be threatened.

He set a sharp pace.

He should call Dorothea and warn her, but he’d resented her intrusion last night during his call with Ramsey. This was his problem and he could handle things. At least she hadn’t berated him about being wrong when it came to Ramsey. Instead she’d taken him to a luxurious Munich hotel and pleased them both. Calling her might also require him to explain how they’d been located, and that was a conversation he’d like to avoid.

Fifty yards ahead, the close huddle of the pedestrian-only old town ended at a busy boulevard packed with cars and lined with yellow-fronted buildings that projected a Mediterranean feel.

He glanced back.

The two following closed the gap.

He stared left and right, then across the blare and bustle. A taxi stand lined the boulevard’s far curb, drivers propped outside, waiting for fares. Six lanes of chaos lay in between, the noise level as high as his heart rate. Cars began to congeal as traffic signals to his left cycled from green.

A bus approached from his right, in the middle lane.

The inside and outside lanes were slowing.

Anxiety gave way to fear. He had no choice. Ramsey wanted him dead. And since he knew what the two pursuers behind him had to offer, he’d take his chances with the boulevard.

He darted out as a driver apparently spotted him and braked.

He timed the next move perfectly and leaped across the middle lane just as the traffic signals changed to red and the bus began its stop for the intersection. He leaped the outside lane, which was luckily car-free for a few moments, and found the grassy median.

The bus ground to a halt and blocked any line of sight from the sidewalk. Honks and screeches, like geese and owls quarreling, signaled opportunity. He’d earned a precious few seconds, so he decided not to waste a single one. He raced across the three lanes ahead of him, empty thanks to the red light, and jumped into the lead taxi, ordering the driver in German, “Go.”

The man hopped behind the wheel and Wilkerson crouched as the taxi sped away.

He glanced out the window.

The green light appeared and a phalanx of traffic rushed ahead. The man and woman wove their way across the cleared half of the boulevard, now prevented from a complete crossing thanks to the spate of vehicles speeding toward him.

His two pursuers searched all around.

He smiled.

“Where to?” the driver asked in German.

He decided to make another smart play. “Just a few blocks, then stop.”

When the taxi wheeled to the curb, he tossed the driver ten euros and hopped out. He’d spotted a sign for the U-Bahn and hustled down the stairs, bought a ticket, and rushed to the platform.

The underground train arrived and he stepped into a nearly full car. He sat and activated his cell phone, which came with a special feature. He entered a numeric code and the screen read
DELETE ALL DATA
? He pressed yes. Like his second wife, who never heard him the first time, the phone asked
ARE YOU SURE
? He pressed yes again.

The memory was now wiped clean.

He bent over, ostensibly to stretch his socks, and laid the phone beneath the seat.

The train eased into the next station.

He exited. But the phone kept going.

That should keep Ramsey busy.

He made his way up from the station, pleased with his escape. He needed to contact Dorothea, but that had to be done carefully. If he was being watched, so was she.

He stepped out into the sunny afternoon and found his bearings. He was not far from the river, near the Deutsches Museum. Another busy street and crowded sidewalk spread out before him.

A man suddenly stopped beside him.

“
Bitte,
Herr Wilkerson,” he said in German. “To that car, just down there, at the curb.”