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Her mother's face remained impassive. Where her father had been carefree, loving, warm, her mother stayed disciplined, distant, aloof. Nannies had raised both Christl and her, and they'd always craved their mother's attention, competing for what little affection there was to enjoy. Which she'd always thought accounted for much of their animosity-each daughter's desire to be special, complicated by the fact that they were identical.
"Is this just a game for you?" she asked.
"It is far more than that. It is time my daughters grow up."
"I despise you."
"Finally-anger. If that will keep you from doing stupid things then by God hate me."
Dorothea had reached her limit and advanced toward her mother. But Ulrich stepped between them. Her mother held up a hand and stopped him, as she would a trained animal, and Henn stepped back.
"What would you do?" her mother asked. "Attack me?"
"If I could."
"And would that obtain what you want?"
The question halted her. Negative emotions ebbed away, leaving only guilt. As always.
A smile crept onto her mother's lips. "You must listen to me, Dorothea. I have truly come to help."
Werner watched with a tempered reserve. Dorothea pointed his way. "You killed Wilkerson and now have given me him. Does Christl get to keep her American?"
"That would not be fair. Though Werner is your husband, he's not a former American agent. I'll deal with it tomorrow."
"And how do you know where he'll be tomorrow?"
"That's just it, child. I know precisely where he'll be and I'm about to tell you."
"YOU HAVE TWO MASTER'S DEGREES, YET EINHARD'S WILL WAS A problem for you?" Malone asked Christl. "Get real. You already knew all of this."
"I won't deny that."
"I'm an idiot for getting myself in the middle of this disaster. I've killed three people in the past twenty-four hours because of your family."
She sat in one of the chairs. "I was able to solve the pursuit to this point. You're right. It was relatively easy. But to someone living in the Dark Ages it was probably insurmountable. So few people then were literate. I have to say, I was curious to see how good you were."
"Did I pass?"
"Quite well."
"But only those who appreciate the throne of Solomon and Roman frivolity shall find their way to heaven. That's next, so where to?"
"Whether you believe me or not, I don't know the answer. I stopped at this point three days ago and returned to Bavaria-"
"To await me?"
"Mother called me home and told me what Dorothea was planning."
He needed to make something clear. "I'm here only because of my father. I stayed because somebody is upset that I got a peek at that file, and that reaches straight to Washington."
"I didn't factor into your decision in any way?"
"One kiss does not make a relationship."
"And I thought you enjoyed it."
Time for a reality check. "Since we both know this much of the pursuit, we can now solve the rest separately."
He headed toward the exit doors, but stopped at the body. How many people had he killed through the years? Too many. But always for a reason. God and country. Duty and honor.
What about this time?
No answer.
He stared back at Christl Falk, who sat unconcerned.
And he left.
FORTY-SEVEN
CHARLOTTE, 5:20 PM
STEPHANIE AND EDWIN DAVIS HUDDLED IN THE WOODS FIFTY yards from Herbert Rowland's lakeside house. Rowland had arrived home fifteen minutes ago and hurried inside carrying a pizza box. He'd immediately come back out and retrieved three logs from the woodpile. Smoke now puffed from a rough-hacked stone chimney. She wished they had a fire.
They'd spent a couple of hours during the afternoon buying additional winter clothes, thick gloves, and wool caps. They'd also stocked up on snacks and drink, then returned and assumed a position where they could safely watch the house. Davis doubted the killer would return before nightfall, but wanted to be in position just in case.
"He's in for the night," Davis said, keeping his voice to a whisper.
Though the trees blocked a breeze, the dry air was chilling by the minute. Darkness crept slowly over them in an almost amoebic flow. Their new clothes were all hunter's garb, everything high-tech insulated. She'd never hunted in her life and had felt odd purchasing the stuff at a camping supply store near one of Charlotte's upscale shopping malls.
They nestled at the base of a stout evergreen on a bed of pine needles. She was munching a Twix bar. Candy was her weakness. One drawer of her desk in Atlanta was filled with temptations.
She was still unsure they were doing the right thing.
"We should call the Secret Service," she said in a hushed whisper.
"You always so negative?"
"You shouldn
't dismiss the idea so quickly."
"This is my fight."
"Seems to be mine now, too."
"Herbert Rowland is in trouble. There's no way he'd believe us if we knocked on the front door and told him. Neither would the Secret Service. We have nothing for proof."
"Except the guy in the house today."
"What guy? Who is he? Tell me what we know."
She couldn't.
"We're going to have to catch him in the act," he said.
"Because you think he killed Millicent?"
"He did."
"How about you tell me what's really happening here. Millicent has nothing to do with a dead admiral, Zachary Alexander, or Operation Highjump. This is more than some personal vendetta."
"Ramsey is the common denominator. You know that."
"Actually, all I know is I have agents who are trained to do this kind of thing, yet here I am freezing my ass off with a White House staffer who has a chip on his shoulder."
She finished her candy bar.
"You like those things?" he asked.
"That's not going to work."
"Because I think they're terrible. Now, Baby Ruth. That's a candy bar."
She reached into her shopping bag and found one. "I agree."
He plucked it from her grasp. "Don't mind if I do."
She grinned. Davis was both irritating and intriguing.
"Why have you never married?" she asked.
"How do you know that I haven't?"
"It's obvious."
He seemed to appreciate her perception. "Never became an issue."
She wondered whose fault that had been.
"I work," he said, as he chewed the candy. "And I didn't want the pain."
That she could understand. Her own marriage had been a disaster, ending in a long estrangement, followed by her husband's suicide fifteen years ago. A long time to be alone. But Edwin Davis might be one of the few who understood.
"There's more than pain," she said. "Lots of joy there, too."
"But there's always pain. That's the problem."
