Steve Berry - The Charlemagne Pursuit

Booths decorated with fragrant pine boughs dotted the square, part of the city's Christmas market, which stretched out of sight down the old town's busy main thoroughfare. He'd heard about the millions who came each year for the festivities but doubted he and Dorothea would have time to attend. She was on a mission. He was, too, which made him think of work. He needed to check with Berlin and maintain a presence for his employees' sake. So he found his cell phone and dialed.

"Captain Wilkerson," his yeoman said, after answering. "I was told to direct any call from you directly to Commander Bishop."

Before he could ask why, the voice of his second in command came on the line. "Captain, I have to ask where you are."

His radar went to full alert. Never did Bryan Bishop call him Captain, unless other people were listening.

"What's the problem?" he asked.

"Sir, this call is being recorded. You've been relieved of all duties and declared a level-three security risk. Our orders are to locate and detain you."

He grabbed hold of his emotions. "Who gave those orders?"

"Office of the Director. Issued by Captain Hovey, signed by Admiral Ramsey."

He'd actually been the one who recommended Bishop's promotion to commander. He was a compliant officer who followed orders with unquestioned zeal. Great then, bad now.

"Am I being sought?" he asked, and then a realization slammed into him and he clicked off the phone before hearing the answer.

He stared at the unit. They came with a built-in GPS locator for emergency tracking. Damn. That's how they'd found him last night. He hadn't been thinking. Of course, he'd had no idea before the attack that he was a target. After, he'd been rattled and Ramsey-the SOB-had rocked him to sleep, buying time to dispatch another team.

His daddy had been right. Can't trust a one of them.

Suddenly a city of 120 square miles, with millions of inhabitants, transformed from a refuge into a prison. He glanced around at the people, all huddled in thick coats, darting in every direction.

And no longer wanted any pastries.

RAMSEY LEFT THE NATIONAL MALL AND DROVE INTO CENTRAL Washington, near Dupont Circle. Normally he used Charlie Smith for his special tasks, but that was currently impossible. Luckily he kept a variety of assets-all capable in their own way-on a call list. He had a reputation of paying well and promptly, which helped when he needed things done quickly.

He wasn't the only admiral jockeying for David Sylvian's post. He knew of at least five others who were surely on the phone to congressmen as soon as they'd heard Sylvian had died. Paying the proper respects and burying the man would come in a few days-but Sylvian's successor would be chosen in the next few hours, as slots that high on the military food chain did not stay vacant long.

He should have known Aatos Kane would be a problem. The senator had been around a long time. He knew the lay of the land. But experience came with liabilities. Men like Kane counted on the fact that opponents did not possess either the nerve or the means to exploit those liabilities.

He suffered from neither deficiency.

He grabbed a curbside parking spot just as another car was leaving. At least something had gone right today. He clicked seventy-five cents into the meter and walked through the chill until he found Capitol Maps.

An interesting store.

Nothing but maps from every corner of the globe, including an impressive travel and guidebook collection. He wasn't in the market for cartography today. Instead he needed to speak to the owner.

He entered and spotted her talking to a customer.

She caught a glimpse, but nothing in her countenance revealed any recognition. He assumed the considerable fees he'd paid her through the years for contract services had helped finance the store, but they'd never discussed the matter. One of his rules. Assets were tools, treated the same as a hammer, saw, or screwdriver. Use them. Then put them away. Most of the people he employed understood that rule. Those who didn't were never called again.

The store owner finished with her customer and casually strolled over. "Looking for a particular map? We have a large assortment."

He glanced around. "That you do. Which is good, because I need a lot of help today."

WILKERSON REALIZED THAT HE WAS BEING FOLLOWED. A MAN AND a woman lurked a hundred feet behind him, most likely alerted by his contact with Berlin. They'd made no move to close, which meant one of two things. They wanted Dorothea and were waiting for him to lead them to her, or he was being herded.

Neither prospect was pleasant.

He elbowed a path through a thick knot of midday Munich shoppers and had no idea how many other adversaries were waiting ahead. A level-three security risk? That meant they would contain with whatever force necessary-including deadly. Worse, they'd had hours to prepare. He knew the Oberhauser operation was important-more personal than professional-and Ramsey had the conscience of an executioner. If threatened, he'd react. At the moment he certainly appeared to be threatened.

He set a sharp pace.

He should call Dorothea and warn her, but he'd resented her intrusion last night during his call with Ramsey. This was his problem and he could handle things. At least she hadn't berated him about being wrong when it came to Ramsey. Instead she'd taken him to a luxurious Munich hotel and pleased them both. Calling her might also require him to explain how they'd been located, and that was a conversation he'd like to avoid.

Fifty yards ahead, the close huddle of the pedestrian-only old town ended at a busy boulevard packed with cars and lined with yellow-fronted buildings that projected a Mediterranean feel.

He glanced back.

The two following closed the gap.

He stared left and right, then across the blare and bustle. A taxi stand lined the boulevard's far curb, drivers propped outside, waiting for fares. Six lanes of chaos lay in between, the noise level as high as his heart rate. Cars began to congeal as traffic signals to his left cycled from green.

A bus approached from his right, in the middle lane.

The inside and outside lanes were slowing.

Anxiety gave way to fear. He had no choice. Ramsey wanted him dead. And since he knew what the two pursuers behind him had to offer, he'd take his chances with the boulevard.

He darted out as a driver apparently spotted him and braked.

He timed the next move perfectly and leaped across the middle lane just as the traffic signals changed to red and the bus began its stop for the intersection. He leaped the outside lane, which was luckily car-free for a few moments, and found the grassy median.

The bus ground to a halt and blocked any line of sight from the sidewalk. Honks and screeches, like geese and owls quarreling, signaled opportunity. He'd earned a precious few seconds, so he decided not to waste a single one. He raced across the three lanes ahead of him, empty thanks to the red light, and jumped into the lead taxi, ordering the driver in German, "Go."

The man hopped behind the wheel and Wilkerson crouched as the taxi sped away.

He glanced out the window.

The green light appeared and a phalanx of traffic rushed ahead. The man and woman wove their way across the cleared half of the boulevard, now prevented from a complete crossing thanks to the spate of vehicles speeding toward him.

His two pursuers searched all around.

He smiled.

"Where to?" the driver asked in German.

He decided to make another smart play. "Just a few blocks, then stop."

When the taxi wheeled to the curb, he tossed the driver ten euros and hopped out. He'd spotted a sign for the U-Bahn and hustled down the stairs, bought a ticket, and rushed to the platform.