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DOROTHEA WAS NOT HAPPY. THE PLANE BUMPED ITS WAY THROUGH rough air like a truck on a pitted dirt road, which brought back memories of her childhood and trips to the lodge with her father. They'd loved the outdoors. While Christl shunned guns and hunting, she'd loved both. It had been something she and her father had shared. Unfortunately, they'd only enjoyed a few seasons. She was ten when he died. Or, better put, when he never came back home again. And that sad thought scooped out another crater in the pit of her stomach, deepening an emptiness that seemed to never abate.
It was after her father's disappearance that she and Christl had drifted farther apart. Different friends, interests, tastes. Lives. How did two people who sprang from the same egg grow so distant?
Only one explanation made sense.
Their mother.
For decades she'd forced them to compete. And those battles had bred resentment. Dislike came next. An easy jump from there to hatred.
She sat strapped into her seat, bundled in her gear. Malone had been right about the clothing. This misery wouldn't end for at least another five hours. The crew had distributed box lunches when they'd boarded. Cheese roll, cookies, chocolate bar, a drumstick, and an apple. No way she could eat a bite. Just the thought of food made her sick. She pressed her parka tight into the seat's web backings and tried to be comfortable. An hour ago Malone had disappeared up into the flight deck. Henn and Werner were asleep, but Christl seemed wide awake.
Perhaps she was anxious, too.
This flight was the worst of her life, and not just from the discomfort. They were flying to their destiny. Was something there? If so, was it good or bad?
After suiting up, they'd each packed their insulated rucksacks. She'd brought only a change of clothes, a toothbrush, some toiletries, and an automatic pistol. Her mother had sneaked it to her in Ossau. Since this was not a commercial flight, there'd been no security inspections. Though she resented allowing her mother to make yet another decision for her, she felt better with the gun nearby.
Christl's head turned.
Their eyes met in the half-light.
What a bitter piece of irony that they were here, on this plane, thrust together. Would speaking to her do any good?
She decided to try.
She unbuckled her harness and rose from the seat. She crossed the narrow aisle and sat beside her sister. "We have to stop this," she said over the noise.
"I plan to. Once we find what I know is there." Christl's expression was as cold as the plane's interior.
She tried again. "None of that matters."
"Not to you. It never did. All you cared about was passing the wealth to your precious Georg."
The words pierced her, and she wanted to know, "Why did you resent him?"
"He was all that I could never give, dear sister."
She caught the bitterness as conflicting emotions collided inside her. Dorothea had wept by Georg's coffin for two days trying, with everything she possessed, to release his memory. Christl had come to the funeral, but left quickly. Not once had her sister offered any condolences.
Nothing.
Georg's death had signaled a turning point in Dorothea's life. Everything changed. Her marriage, her family. And, most important, herself. She did not like what she'd become, but had readily accepted anger and resentment as substitutes for a child she'd adored.
"You're barren?" she asked.
"You care?"
"Does Mother know you can't have children?" she asked.
"What does it matter? This isn't about children anymore. It's about the Oberhauser legacy. What this family believed."
She could see that this effort was futile. The gulf between them was far too wide to either fill or bridge.
She started to rise.
Christl cracked her hand down on her wrist. "So I didn't say I was sorry when he died. At least you know what it is like to have a child."
The pettiness of the comment stunned her. "God help any child you would have had. You could have never cared for one. You're incapable of that kind of love."
"Seems you didn't do such a great job. Yours is dead."
Damn her.
Her right hand formed a fist and her arm powered upward, smashing into Christl's face.
RAMSEY SAT AT HIS DESK AND PREPARED HIMSELF FOR WHAT LAY ahead. Surely more interviews and press attention. Admiral Sylvian's funeral was tomorrow, at Arlington National Cemetery, and he reminded himself to make mention of that sad event to every interviewer. Focus on the fallen comrade. Be humble that you've been chosen to follow in his footsteps. Regret the loss of a fellow flag officer. The funeral would be a full-dress affair with honors. The military certainly knew how to bury its own. They'd done it often enough.
His cell phone rang. An international number. Germany. About time.
"Good evening, Admiral," a gravelly woman's voice said.
"Frau Oberhauser. I've been expecting your call."
"And how did you know I would call?"
"Because you're an anxious old bitch who likes to be in control."
She chuckled. "That I am. Your men did a good job. Malone is dead."
"I prefer to wait till they report that fact to me."
"I'm afraid that's going to be impossible. They're dead, as well."
"Then you're the one with a problem. I have to have confirmation."
"Have you heard anything about Malone in the last twelve hours? Any reports of what he might be doing?"
No, he hadn't.
"I saw him die."
"Then we have nothing more to say."
"Except you owe me an answer to my question. Why did my husband never come back?"
What the hell? Tell her. "The submarine malfunctioned."
"And the crew? My husband?"
"They didn't survive."
Silence.
Finally, she said, "You saw the submarine and the crew?"
"I did."
"Tell me what you saw."
"You don't want to know."
Another long pause, then, "Why was it necessary to cover this up?"
"The submarine was top secret. Its mission was secret. There was no choice at the time. We couldn't risk the Soviets finding it. Only eleven men aboard, so it was easy to conceal the facts."
"And you left them there?"
; "Your husband agreed to those conditions. He knew the risks."
"And you Americans say Germans are heartless."
"We're practical, Frau Oberhauser. We protect the world, you folks tried to conquer it. Your husband signed on for a dangerous mission. His idea, actually. He's not the first to make that choice."
He was hoping this would be the last he heard from her. He didn't need her aggravation.
"Good-bye, Admiral. I hope you rot in hell."
He heard the emotion in her voice, but could not care less. "I wish only the same for you."
And he clicked off.
He made a mental note to change his cell phone number. That way he'd never have to talk to that crazy German again.
CHARLIE SMITH LOVED A CHALLENGE. RAMSEY HAD DELEGATED him a fifth target, but made clear that the job had to be done today. Absolutely nothing could arouse suspicions. A clean kill, no aftertaste. Usually that would not be a problem. But he was working with no file, only a few scant facts from Ramsey, and a twelve-hour window. If successful, Ramsey had promised an impressive bonus. Enough to pay for Bailey Mill, with plenty left over for remodeling and furnishing.
He was back from Asheville, at his apartment, the first time home in a couple of months. He'd managed a few hours' sleep and was ready for what lay ahead. He heard a soft chime from the kitchen table and checked his cell phone ID. Not a number he recognized, though it was a Washington-area exchange. Perhaps it was Ramsey calling from an anonymous phone. He'd do that sometimes. Theman was eaten up by paranoia.
He answered.
"I'm calling for Charlie Smith," a woman's voice said.
The use of that name brought his senses alert. He used that label only with Ramsey. "You got the wrong number."
"No, I don't."
"Afraid so."
"I wouldn't hang up," she said. "What I have to say could make or break your life."
"Like I said, lady, wrong number."
"You killed Douglas Scofield."
A cold chill swept through him as realization dawned. "You were there, with the guy?"
