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He used the happy disorder to confirm that Hatchet Face had followed, staying back, casually examining the booths near a towering blue spruce with electric candles and tiny lights balancing on swaying boughs. He caught the scent of boiling vinegar-gluhwein. A stall selling the spiced port stood a few yards away, gloved patrons cradling steaming brown mugs.
He pointed to another merchant selling what looked like cookies. "What are they?"
"A local delicacy. Aachener printen. Spicy gingerbread."
"Let's have one."
She threw him a quizzical look.
"What?" he said. "I like sweets."
They walked over and he bought two of the flat, hard cookies.
He tried a bite. "Not bad."
He'd thought the gesture would help relax Hatchet Face and he was pleased to see that it had. The man remained casual and confident.
Darkness would be here soon. He'd bought tickets for the chapel's six PM tour earlier when they'd stopped to obtain the guidebooks. He was going to have to improvise. He'd learned from his reading that the chapel was a UNESCO world cultural monument. Burglarizing or damaging it would be a serious offense. But after the monastery in Portugal and St. Mark's in Venice, what did it matter?
He seemed to specialize in vandalizing world treasures.
DOROTHEA ENTERED THE MUNICH TRAIN STATION. THE HAUPTBAHNHOF was conveniently located in the city center, about two kilometers from the Marienplatz. Trains from all over Europe arrived and departed by the hour, along with local connections to the underground lines, trams, and buses. The station was not a historical masterpiece-more a modern combination of steel, glass, and concrete. Clocks throughout the interior noted that it was a little past six PM.
What was happening?
Apparently Admiral Langford Ramsey wanted Wilkerson dead, but she needed Wilkerson.
Actually, she liked him.
She glanced around and spotted the tourist office. A quick survey of the benches offered no sight of Wilkerson, but through the crowd she spotted a man.
His tall frame sported a three-button glen-plaid suit and leather oxfords beneath a wool coat. A dull Burberry scarf draped his neck. He possessed a handsome face with child-like features, though age had clearly added some furrows and valleys. His steel-gray eyes, encircled by wire-framed glasses, appraised her with a penetrating gaze.
Her husband.
Werner Lindauer.
He stepped close. "Guten abend, Dorothea."
She did not know what to say. Their marriage was entering its twenty-third year, a union that, in the beginning, had been productive. But over the last decade she'd come to resent his perpetual whining and lack of appreciation for anything beyond his own self-interest. His only saving point had been his devotion to Georg, their son. But Georg's death five years ago had chiseled a wide divide between them. Werner had been devastated and so had she, but they'd handled their grief differently. She withdrew into herself. He became angry. Ever since she'd simply led her life and allowed him to lead his, neither answering to the other.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I came for you."
She was not in the mood for his antics. Occasionally, he'd tried to be a man, more a passing fancy than a fundamental change.
She wanted to know, "How did you know I'd be here?"
"Captain Sterling Wilkerson told me."
Her shock evolved into dread.
"Interesting man," he said. "A gun to his head and he simply can't stop talking."
"What have you done?" she asked, not concealing her astonishment.
His gaze zeroed in. "A great deal, Dorothea. We have a train to catch."
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
Werner seemed to restrain a surge of annoyance. Perhaps he hadn't contemplated that reaction. But his lips relaxed into a reassuring smile that actually frightened her. "Then you shall lose your mother's challenge with your dear sister. Does that not matter?"
She'd had no idea he was aware of what was happening. She'd told him nothing. Clearly, though, her husband was well informed.
Finally, she asked, "Where are we going?"
"To see our son."
STEPHANIE WATCHED AS EDWIN DAVIS DROVE OFF. SHE THEN switched her phone to silent, buttoned her coat, and plunged into the woods. Old-growth pines and bare hardwoods, many vined with mistletoe, stretched overhead. Winter had only minimally thinned the underbrush. She advanced the hundred yards back toward the house slowly, a heavy layer of pine needles silencing her steps.
She'd seen the hanger moving. No doubt. But was it a mistake by her, or by the person she'd sensed inside?
She repeatedly told her agents to trust their instincts. Nothing worked better than common sense. Cotton Malone had been a master of that. She wondered what he was doing right now. He hadn't called back concerning the information on Zachary Alexander or the rest of Holden's command staff.
Had he found trouble, too?
The house appeared, its form broken by the many trees that stood in between. She crouched behind one of the trunks.
Everyone, no matter how good they may be, eventually screwed up. The trick was being there when it happened. If Davis was to be believed, Zachary Alexander and David Sylvian had been murdered by someone expertly able to mask those deaths. And though he hadn't voiced his reservations, she'd detected them when Davis told her how Millicent had died.
Her heart stopped.
Davis was playing a hunch, too.
The hanger.
It had moved.
And she'd wisely not revealed what she'd seen in the bedroom, deciding to see if Herbert Rowland was, in fact, next.
The door to the house opened and a short, thin man wearing jeans and boots stepped out.
He hesitated, then his darkened form trotted away, disappearing into the woods. Her heart raced. Son of a bitch.
What had he done in there?
She found her phone and dialed Davis's number, which was answered after one ring.
"You were right," she told him.
"About what?"
"Like you said with Langford Ramsey. Everything. Absolutely everything."
THIRTY-EIGHT
AACHEN, 6:15 PM
MALONE FOLLOWED THE TOUR GROUP BACK INTO THE CENTRAL octagon of Charlemagne's chapel. Inside was fifty degrees warmer than outdoors, and he was grateful to be out of the cold. The tour guide spoke English. About twenty people had bought tickets, Hatchet Face not among them. For some reason their shadow had decided to wait outside. Perhaps the close confines had advised ca
ution. The lack of a crowd may have also played into his decision. The chairs beneath the dome were empty, only the tour group and a dozen or so other visitors loitering about.
A flash strobed the walls as someone snapped a picture. One of the attendants hustled toward the woman with the camera.
"There's a fee," Christl whispered, "for taking pictures."
He watched as the visitor forked over a few euros and the man provided her a wristband.
"Now she's legal?" he asked.
Christl grinned. "It takes money to maintain this place."
He listened as the guide explained about the chapel, most of the information a regurgitation of what he'd read in the guidebooks. He'd wanted to take the tour because only paid groups were allowed in certain parts, upstairs particularly, where the imperial throne was located.
They wandered with the visitors into one of seven side chapels that jutted from the Carolingian core. This one was St. Michael's-recently renovated, the guide explained. Wooden pews faced a marble altar. Several of the group paused to light candles. Malone noticed a door in what he determined to be the west wall and recalled that it should be the other exit he'd discovered while reading the guidebooks. The heavy wooden slab hung closed. He casually wandered through the dim interior while the guide droned on about the history. At the door, he paused and quickly tested the latch. Locked.
"What are you doing?" Christl asked.
"Solving your problem."
They followed the tour, heading past the main altar toward the gothic choir, another area only open to paying groups. He stopped within the octagon and studied a mosaic inscription that encircled above the lower arches. Black Latin letters on a gold background. Christl carried the plastic shopping bag that held the guidebooks. He quickly found the one he recalled, a thin pamphlet appropriately titled A Small Guide to Aachen Cathedral, and noted that the Latin in the printed text matched the mosaic.
