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"What are you waiting for, sister?" Christl called out. "Come and get me."
MALONE REENTERED THE BACK CORRIDORS OF THE BATH HALL and heard Christl call out to Dorothea. He turned left, which seemed the direction from which the words had come, and made his way down another long corridor that eventually spilled into a room forty feet ahead. He advanced, watchful of open doorways to his left and right. He gave a quick glance inside each as he kept moving. More storage and work spaces. Nothing of interest in any of the gloomy alcoves.
In the next to last one he halted.
Someone lay on the floor.
A man.
He entered the room.
The face was of a middle-aged Caucasian, with short rust-brown hair. He lay prone, arms at his side, feet stretched straight, like some human form of petrified rock, a blanket flat beneath him. He wore an orange navy regulation jumpsuit with the name johnson stitched to his left pocket. His mind made the connection. EM2 Jeff Johnson, Ship's Electrician. NR-1A.
His heart gave a sudden leap.
The seaman seemed to have simply lain down and allowed the cold to steal over him. Malone had been taught in the navy that no one froze to death. Instead, as cold air enveloped bare skin, vessels near the surface constricted, reducing heat loss, forcing blood to vital organs. Cold hands, warm heart, was more than a cliche. He recalled the warning signs. First a tingling, a stinging, a dull ache, then numbness and finally a sudden whitening. Death came once the body's core temperature fell and vital organs shut down.
Then you froze.
Here, in a world with no moisture, the body should have been perfectly preserved, but Johnson had not been so lucky. Black scraps of dead skin hung from his cheeks and chin. Mottled yellow scabs caked his face, some hardened into a grotesque mask. His eyelids had frozen shut, ice clinging to the lashes, and his last breaths were condensed into two icicles that hung from his nose to his mouth, like the tusks of a walrus.
Anger at the US Navy swelled inside him. The sorry no-good SOBs let these men die.
Alone.
Helpless.
Forgotten.
He heard footsteps and retreated back to the hall, glancing right just as Dorothea appeared in the last room, then disappeared through another doorway.
He let her go ahead.
Then followed.
NINETY-ONE
Smith stared down at the woman. She lay still in the bed. He'd waited for her to pass out, the effects of the alcohol working as the perfect sedative. She'd drunk a lot, more than usual, celebrating what she thought would be a marriage to a rising captain in the US Navy. But she'd chosen the wrong beau. Captain Langford Ramsey had no desire to marry her. Instead he wanted her dead, and he'd paid handsomely for that to happen.
She was lovely. Long, silky hair. Smooth, dark skin. Beautiful features. He folded back the blanket and studied her naked frame. She was thin and shapely, offering no sign of the pregnancy he'd been told existed. Ramsey had provided him with her naval medical records, which indicated an irregular heartbeat that had required two treatments over the past six years. Hereditary, most likely. Low blood pressure was also a concern.
Ramsey had promised him more work if this job went smoothly. He liked the fact they were in Belgium, as he'd found Europeans far less suspicious than Americans. But it shouldn't matter. The cause of the woman's death would be untraceable.
He found the syringe and decided the armpit would be the best injection point. A tiny hole would remain, but hopefully it would go unnoticed-absent an autopsy. Even if an autopsy occurred, there'd be nothing in the blood or tissue to find.
Just a tiny hole under the arm.
He gently grasped her elbow and inserted the needle.
Smith recalled exactly what happened that night in Brussels, but wisely decided not to share any details with the man standing six feet away.
"I'm waiting," Davis said.
"She died."
"You killed her."
He was curious. "Is all this about her?"
"It's about you."
He didn't like the bitter edge in Davis' voice, so he declared again, "I'm leaving."
STEPHANIE WATCHED AS DAVIS CHALLENGED THEIR CAPTOR. SMITH might not want to kill them, but he certainly would if need be.
"She was a good person," Davis said. "She didn't have to die."
"You should have had this conversation with Ramsey. He's the one who wanted her dead."
"He's the one who beat the crap out of her all the time."
"Maybe she liked it?"
Davis advanced forward, but Smith halted him with the rifle. Stephanie knew that with a single pull of the trigger not much of Davis would be left.
"You're an edgy one," Smith said.
Davis' eyes were suffused with hate. He seemed to hear and see only Charlie Smith.
But she caught movement behind Smith, outside the bare window frame, past the covered front porch, where bright sunshine was soothed by the winter cold.
A shadow.
Moving closer.
Then a face peered inside.
Colonel William Gross.
She saw that McCoy had spotted him, too, and wondered why Gross didn't just shoot Smith. Surely he was armed and, apparently, McCoy had known the colonel was out there-two guns flying out the window had certainly conveyed the message that they needed help.
Then it occurred to her.
The president wanted this one alive.
He didn't necessarily want a lot of attention drawn to this situation-hence there wasn't a cadre of FBI and Secret Service here-but he wanted Charlie Smith in one piece.
McCoy gave a slight nod.
Smith caught the gesture.
His head whirled.
DOROTHEA LEFT THE BUILDING AND DESCENDED A SET OF NARROW stairs back to the street. She was next to the bathhouse, beyond the plaza that stretched out in front, near the cavern's end and one of the polished rock walls that rose hundreds of meters.
She turned right.
Christl was thirty meters away, running through a gallery of alternating light and dark that caused her to appear and disappear.
She pursued.
Like chasing a deer in the forest. Give it room. Allow it to think itself safe. Then strike when least expected.
She passed through the light gallery and entered another plaza, similar to the one before the bathhouse in size and shape. Empty, except for a stone bench upon which a figure sat. He wore a white cold-weather suit similar to her own, except his was unzipped in front, arms exposed, the top half rolled down to the waist, exposing a chest clothed only in a wool sweater. His eyes were dark hollows in a shallow face, the lids closed. His frozen neck had craned to one side, his dark hair brushing the tops of ashen white ears. An iron-gray beard was streaked with congealed moisture and a blissful grin danced across closed lips. His hands were folded peacefully before him.
Her father.
Her nerves racked into numbness. Her heart pounded. She wanted to look away, but couldn't. Corpses were meant to be entombed, not sitting on benches.
"Yes, it's him," Christl said.
Her attention swung back to the danger around her, but she did not see her sister, only heard her.
"I found him earlier. He's been waiting for us."
"Show yourself," she said.
A laugh permeated the silence. "Look at him, Dorothea. He unzipped his coat and allowed himself to die. Can you imagine?"
No, she couldn't.
"That took courage," the disembodied voice said. "To hear Mother speak, he had no courage. To hear you speak, he was a fool. Could you have done that, Dorothea?"
She spotted another of the tall gates, framed by square columns, sealed with bronze doors, these swung open, no metal bar holding them shut. Beyond, steps led down and she felt a breeze of cold air.
She stared back at the dead man.
"Our father."
She whirled. Christl stood perhaps seven meters away, with a gun pointed.
She stiffened her arm and started to raise her weapon.
"No, Dorothea," Christl said. "Keep it down."
She did not move.
"We found him," Christl said. "We solved Mother's quest."
"This resolves nothing between us."
"I totally agree.
"I was right," Christl said, "About every single thing. And you were wrong."
"Why did you kill Henn and Werner?"
"Mother sent Henn to stop me. Loyal Ulrich. And Werner? Seems you'd be glad he's gone."
"You plan to kill Malone, too?"
"I have to be the only one who walks from here. The lone survivor."
"You're insane."
"Look at him, Dorothea. Our precious father. The last time we saw him we were ten years old."
She didn't want to look. She'd seen enough. And she wanted to remember him as she'd known him.
"You doubted him," Christl said.
"So did you."
"Never."
"You're a murderess."
Christl laughed. "Like I care what you think of me."
