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A car waited for him and he was driven to where Diane McCoy was being held. He'd ordered her detainment the moment Hovey had informed him of her visit to the base. Holding a deputy national security adviser could present a problem, but he'd assured the base commander that he'd assume full responsibility.
He doubted there'd be any fallout.
This was McCoy's jaunt, and she wasn't about to involve the White House. That conclusion was fortified by the fact that she'd made no calls from the base.
He left the car and entered the security building, where a sergeant-major escorted him to McCoy. He entered and closed the door. She'd been made comfortable in the chief of security's private office.
"About time," she said. "It's been nearly two hours."
He unbuttoned his overcoat. He'd already been told she'd been searched and electronically swept. He sat in a chair beside her. "I thought you and I had a deal."
"No, Langford. You had a deal for you. I had nothing."
"I told you that I would make sure you were a part of the next administration."
"You can't guarantee that."
"Nothing in this world is a certainty, but I can narrow the odds. Which I'm doing, by the way. But recording me? Trying to get me to admit things? Now coming here? This is not the way, Diane."
"What's in that warehouse?"
He needed to know, "How did you learn about it?"
"I'm a deputy national security adviser."
He decided to be partially honest with her. "It contains artifacts found in 1947 during Operation Highjump and again in '48 during Operation Windmill. Some unusual artifacts. They were also part of what happened to NR-1A in '71. That sub was on a mission concerning those artifacts."
"Edwin Davis talked to the president about Highjump and Windmill. I heard him."
"Diane, surely you can see the damage that could be done if it was revealed that the navy did not search for one of its subs after it sank. Not only didn't it search, but a cover story was fabricated. Families were lied to, reports falsified. You might have been able to get away with that then-different times-but not today. The fallout would be enormous."
"And how do you figure into that?"
Interesting. She wasn't all that informed. "Admiral Dyals gave the order not to search for NR-1A. Even though the crew agreed to those conditions before they left port, his reputation would be destroyed if that came out. I owe that man a lot."
"Then why kill Sylvian?"
He wasn't going there. "I didn't kill anybody."
She started to speak, but he stopped her with a halting hand. "I don't deny, though, that I want his job."
The room grew tense, like the descending weight of a hushed poker game-which, in many ways, this encounter resembled. He bore his gaze into her. "I'm being straight with you in the hope that you'll be straight with me."
He knew from Aatos Kane's aide that Daniels had been receptive to the idea of his appointment, which ran contrary to McCoy's theatrics. It was vital that he maintain a set of eyes and ears within the Oval Office. Good decisions were always based on good information. Problem that she was, he needed her.
"I knew you'd come," she said. "Interesting that you have personal control of that warehouse."
He shrugged. "It's under naval intelligence. Before I headed the agency, others looked after it. That's not the only repository we maintain."
"I imagine it's not. But there's a lot more happening here than you want to admit. What about your Berlin station chief, Wilkerson? Why did he end up dead?"
He assumed that tidbit would make it into everyone's daily briefing booklet. But there was no need to confirm any linkage. "I'm having that investigated. The motivations may be personal, though-he was involved with a married woman. Our people are working the case right now. Too soon to say anything sinister."
"I want to see what's in the warehouse."
He watched her face, neither hostile nor unfriendly. "What would that prove?"
"I want to see what this is about."
"No, you don't."
He watched her again. She had a pouting mouth. Her light hair hung like two inward-curving curtains on both sides of a heart-shaped face. She was attractive and he wondered if charm might work. "Diane, listen to me. You don't need to do this. I'll honor our agreement. But to be able to do that, I have to do this my way. You coming here is jeopardizing everything."
"I'm not prepared to trust my career to you."
He knew a little of her history. Her father was a local Indianan politician who'd made a name for himself after getting elected lieutenant governor, then proceeded to alienate half the state. Maybe he was witnessing some of that same rebellious streak? Perhaps. But he had to make things clear. "Then I'm afraid you're on your own."
He sensed comprehension washing over her. "And I'll end up dead?"
"Did I say that?"
"You didn't have to."
No, he didn't. But there was still the problem of damage control. "How about this. We'll say there's been a disagreement. You came here on an exploratory mission, and the White House and naval intelligence have worked out an arrangement whereby the information you want will be provided. That way, the base commander will be satisfied and no more questions, aside from what's already been raised, will be asked. We leave smiling and happy."
He spotted defeat in her eyes.
"Don't screw with me," she said.
"I haven't done a thing. You're the one going off half-cocked."
"I swear to you, Langford, I'll bring you down. Don't screw with me."
He decided diplomacy was the better tack. At least for the moment. "As I've repeatedly said, I'll keep my end of our bargain."
MALONE ENJOYED DINNER, ESPECIALLY SINCE HE'D EATEN LITTLE all day. Interesting how, when he worked in the bookshop, hunger came with a predictable regularity. But in the field, on a mission, the urge seemed to completely disappear.
He'd listened to Isabel and her daughters, along with Werner Lindauer, talk about Hermann and Dietz Oberhauser. The tension between the daughters loomed large. Ulrich Henn had eaten with them, too, and he'd watched Henn carefully. The East German had sat in silence, never acknowledging that he was even hearing, but not missing a word.
Isabel was clearly in charge, and he'd noted the waves in the others' emotions as they rode her unsteady current. Neither daughter ever rose to challenge her. They either agreed or said nothing. And Werner said little of anything useful.
He'd passed on dessert and decided to head upstairs.
In the foyerlike lobby logs burned with a warm glow, filling the room with the scent of resin. He stopped and enjoyed the fire, noticing three framed pencil drawings of the monastery on the walls. One was an exterior sketch of the towers, everything intact, and he noticed a date in one corner. 1784. The other two were interior images. One was of the cloister, its arches and columns no longer bare. Instead carved images sprang from the stones with mathematical regularity. In the center garden the fountain stood in all its glory, water overflowing from its iron basin. He imagined cowled figures flitting to and fro among the arches.
The last drawing was of the inside of the church.
An angular view from the rear vestibule facing toward the altar, from the right side, where he'd made his advance through the columns toward the gunman. No ruin was shown. Instead stone, wood, and glass assembled in a miraculous union-part gothic, part Romanesque. Artwork abounded on the columns, but with a delicate modesty, inconspicuous, a far cry from the church's current decay. He noticed that a bronze grille enclosed the sanctuary, the Carolingian curlicues and swirls reminiscent of what he'd seen in Aachen. The flooring was intact and detailed, differing shades of gray and black denoting what would have surely been color and variety. Dates on each print read 17
72.
The proprietor was busy behind the front desk. He asked, "These originals?"
The man nodded. "They've hung here a long time. Our monastery was once glorious, but no more."
"What happened?"
"War. Neglect. Weather. They all devoured the place."
Before leaving the dinner table, he'd heard Isabel dispatch Henn to dispose of the bodies in the church. Her employee now donned his coat and disappeared into the night.
Malone caught a blast of cold from the front door as the owner handed him a key. He climbed wooden stairs to his room. He'd brought no clothes and the ones he wore needed cleaning, especially his shirt. Inside the room he tossed his jacket and gloves on the bed and removed his shirt. He stepped into the tiny bath and rinsed the shirt out in an enamel basin, using a little soap, then laid it across the radiator to dry.
He stood in his undershirt and studied himself in the mirror. He'd worn an undershirt since he was six years old-a habit hammered into him. "Nasty to be bare-chested," his father would say. "You want your clothes to smell like sweat?" He'd never questioned his father, he'd simply emulated him and always wore an undershirt-deep V neckline, since "wearing an undershirt is one thing, seeing it is another." Interesting how the pull of childhood memories could so easily be triggered. They'd had so short a time together. About three years he could remember, from ages seven to ten. He still kept the flag that had been displayed at his father's memorial in a glass case beside his bed. His mother had refused the memento at the funeral, saying she'd had enough of the navy. But eight years later when he'd told her that he was joining, she hadn't objected. "What else would For-rest Malone's boy do?" she'd asked him.
And he'd agreed. What else?
He heard a soft rap and stepped from the bath to open the door. Christl stood outside.
"May I?" she asked.
He motioned his assent and quietly closed the door behind her.
"I want you to know that I didn't like what happened up there today. That's why I came after you. I told Mother not to deceive you."
"Unlike yourself, of course."
