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"By now Malone's read that file," the voice said when he answered.
"Every word, I'm sure."
"Move him along."
"Men like this can't be rushed," he said.
"But they can be directed."
He had to say, "It's waited twelve hundred years to be found."
"So let's not let it wait any longer."
STEPHANIE SAT AT HER DESK AND FINISHED READING THE COURT of inquiry report. "This whole thing is false?"
Davis nodded. "That sub was nowhere near the North Atlantic."
"What was the point?"
"Rickover built two NR boats. They were his babies. He allocated a fortune to them during the height of the Cold War, and no one gave a second thought to spending two hundred million dollars to one-up the Soviets. But he cut corners. Safety was not the primary concern, results were what mattered. Hell, hardly anybody knew the subs existed. But the sinking of NR-1A raised problems on many levels. The sub itself. The mission. Lots of embarrassing questions. So the navy hid behind national security and concocted a cover story."
"They sent only one ship to look for survivors?"
He nodded. "I agree with you, Stephanie. Malone is cleared to read that. The question is, should he?"
Her answer was never in doubt. "Absolutely." She recalled her own pain at the unresolved questions over her husband's suicide and her son's death. Malone had helped resolve both of those agonies, which was the precise reason why she'd owed him.
Her desk phone buzzed, and one of the staff told her that Cotton Malone was on the line demanding to speak with her.
She and Davis exchanged puzzled glances.
"Don't look at me," Davis said. "I didn't give him that file."
She answered with the handset. Davis pointed to a speaker box. She didn't like it, but she activated the unit so he could hear.
"Stephanie, let me just say that, at the moment, I'm not in the mood for bullshit."
"And hello to you, too."
"Did you read that file before you sent it to me?"
"No." Which was the truth.
"We've been friends a long time. I appreciate you doing this. But I need something else and I don't need any questions asked."
"I thought we were even," she tried.
"Put this on my bill."
She already knew what he wanted.
"A naval ship," he said, "Holden. In November 1971 it was dispatched to the Antarctic. I want to know if its captain is still alive-a man named Zachary Alexander. If so, where is he? If he's not breathing, are any of his officers still around?"
"I don't suppose you're going to tell me why."
"Have you now read the file?" he asked.
"Why do you ask?"
"I can hear it in your voice. So you know why I want to know."
"I was told a short while ago about the Zugspitze. That's when I decided to read the file."
"Did you have people there? On the ground?"
"Not mine."
"If you read that report, then you know the SOBs lied. They left that sub out there. My father and those other ten men could have been sitting on the bottom waiting for people to save them. People who never came. I want to know why the navy did that."
He was clearly angry. So was she.
"I want to talk to one or more of those officers from Holden," he said. "Find them for me."
"You coming here?"
"As soon as you find them."
Davis nodded, signaling his assent.
"All right. I'll locate them."
She was tiring of this charade. Edwin Davis was here for a reason. Ma
lone had obviously been played. She had been, too, for that matter.
"Another thing," he said, "since you know about the cable car. The woman who was there-I popped her hard in the head, but I need to find her. Did they take her into custody? Let her go? What?"
Davis mouthed, You'll get back to him.
Enough. Malone was her friend. He'd stood by her when she really needed it, so it was time to tell him what was happening-Edwin Davis be damned.
"Never mind," Malone suddenly said.
"What do you mean?"
"I just found her."
SEVEN
GARMISCH
MALONE STOOD AT THE SECOND-STORY WINDOW AND GAZED down across the busy street. The woman from the cable car, Panya, calmly walked toward a snowy parking lot that fronted a McDonald's. The restaurant was tucked into a Bavarian-style building, only a discreet sign with the golden arches and a few window decorations announcing its presence.
He released his hold on the lace curtains. What was she doing here? Maybe she'd fled? Or had the police simply let her go?
He grabbed his leather jacket and his gloves and stuffed the gun he'd taken from her into one of the pockets. He left the hotel room and descended to ground level, careful in his movements but casual in his gait.
Outside, the air was like the inside of a chest freezer. His rental car was parked a few feet from the door. Across the street he saw the dark Peugeot the woman had walked toward, preparing to exit the lot, its right blinker flashing.
He hopped into his car and followed.
WILKERSON DOWNED THE REST OF HIS BEER. HE'D SEEN CURTAINS in the second-floor window part as the woman from the cable car strolled before the restaurant.
Timing truly was everything.
He'd thought Malone could not be steered.
But he'd been wrong.
STEPHANIE WAS PISSED. "I'M NOT GOING TO BE PARTY TO THIS," she told Edwin Davis. "I'm calling Cotton back. Fire me, I don't give a damn."
