Steve Berry - The Charlemagne Pursuit

But it was the last time she ever spoke to him.

The next time she saw her only child he was laid in a casket, dressed in a gray suit, ready for burial.

The Oberhauser family plot sat beside an ancient Bavarian church, a few kilometers west of Reichshoffen. After the funeral, the family had endowed a chapel there in Georg's name, and for the first two years she'd gone regularly and lit a candle.

But for the past three years she'd stayed away.

Ahead, she spotted the church, its stained-glass windows faintly lit. Werner parked out front.

"Why do we have to be here?" she asked.

"Believe me, if it wasn't important we wouldn't be."

He stepped out into the night. She followed him into the church. No one was inside, but the iron gate to Georg's chapel hung open.

"You haven't been in a while," he said.

"That's my business."

"I've come quite often."

That didn't surprise her.

She approached the gate. A marble priedieu stood before a small altar. Above, St. George, perched atop a silvery horse, was carved into the stone. She rarely prayed and wondered if she was even a believer. Her father had been a devout atheist, her mother a nonpracticing Catholic. If there was a God, she felt nothing but anger toward him for stripping her of the only person she'd ever loved unconditionally.

"I've had enough of this, Werner. What do you want? This is Georg's grave. He deserves our respect. This is not the place to air our differences."

"And do you respect him by disrespecting me?"

"I don't concern myself with you, Werner. You have your life and I have mine."

"It's over, Dorothea."

"I agree. Our marriage has been over a long time."

"That's not what I meant. No more men. I'm your husband and you are my wife."

She laughed. "You have to be joking."

"Actually, I'm quite serious."

"And what has suddenly evolved you into a man?"

He retreated to the wall. "At some point the living must let go of the dead. I've come to that point."

"You brought me here to tell me that?"

Their relationship had started through their parents. Not an arranged marriage in the formal sense, but nonetheless planned. Thankfully, an attraction blossomed and their early years had been happy. The birth of Georg brought them both great joy. His childhood and teenage years had likewise been wonderful. But his death created irreconcilable differences. There seemed a need to assign blame, and they each directed their frustrations at the other.

"I brought you here because I had to," he said.

"I haven't come to the point you apparently have."

"It's a shame," he said, appearing not to have heard her. "He would have been a great man."

She agreed.

"The boy had dreams, ambitions, and we could have fueled his every desire. He would have been the best of us both." He turned and faced her. "I wonder what he'd think of us now?"

The question struck her odd. "What do you mean?"

"Neither of us has treated the other kindly."

She needed to know, "Werner, what are you doing?"

"Perhaps he's listening and wants to know your thoughts."

She resented his pressing. "My son would have approved of whatever I did."

"Would he? Would he have approved of what you did yesterday? You killed two people."

"And how do you know that?"

"Ulrich Henn cleaned up your mess."

She was confused and concerned, but she was not going to discuss the issue here, in this sacred place. She stepped toward the gate, but he blocked the way and said, "You cannot flee this time."

A wave of uneasiness swept through her. She hated him for violating Georg's sanctuary. "Move."

"Do you have any idea what you are doing?"

"Go to hell, Werner."

"You haven't a clue about reality."

His expression was not one of a man angry or afraid, so she was curious. "Do you want me to lose to Christl?"

His expression softened. "I wasn't aware it was a contest. I thought it more a challenge. But that's why I'm here-to help you."

She needed to know what he knew and how, but could only bring herself to say, "A dead child does not make a marriage." Her gaze bore into his. "I don't need your help. Not anymore."

"You're wrong."

"I want to leave," she said. "Will you let me pass?"

Her husband remained frozen and, for an instant, she was actually afraid. Werner had always clung to emotions like a drowning man to a life preserver. Good at starting fights, terrible at finishing them. So when he retreated from the doorway she wasn't surprised.

She stepped past.

"There's something you need to see," he said.

She stopped, turned, and saw something else she'd not seen in this man for a long time. Confidence. Fear again swept through her.

He left the church and walked back to the car. She followed. He found a key and opened the trunk. Inside, a weak light revealed the contorted, dead face of Sterling Wilkerson, a bloody hole in the center of his forehead.

She gasped.

"This is quite serious, Dorothea."

"Why?" she asked. "Why did you do that?"

He shrugged. "You were using him, as he was using you. Here's the point. He's dead. I'm not."

RAMSEY WAS USHERED INTO THE LIVING ROOM OF ADMIRAL RAYMOND Dyals Jr., four stars, retired, US Navy. The ninety-four-year-old Missourian had served in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam, then retired in the early 1980s. In 1971, when NR-1A was lost, Dyals had been chief of naval operations, the man who'd signed the classified order not to launch any search and rescue for the missing sub. Ramsey had then been a lieutenant, the one chosen by Dyals for the mission, afterward personally briefing the admiral about Holden's covert Antarctica visit. He'd then been quickly promoted to commander and assigned to Dyals' personal staff. From there, the moves upward had been fast and easy.

He owed this old man everything.

And he knew Dyals still carried clout.

He was the oldest living flag officer. Presidents consulted him, the current one no exception. His judgment was considered sound and meaningful. The press afforded him great courtesy, and senators routinely made pilgrimages to the room into which Ramsey now walked, before a raging fire, a wool blanket spread across the old man's spindly legs, a bushy cat nestled in Dyals' lap. He'd even acquired a label-Winterhawk-which Ramsey knew the man relished.

Crinkly eyes flashed as Dyals spotted him entering. "I always like it when you come by."

Ramsey stood respectfully before his mentor until he was invited to sit.

"I thought I might hear from you," Dyals said. "I heard this morning about Sylvian. He served on my staff once. An okay aide, but too rigid. He seems to have done all right, though. Nothing but glowing reports all day on his life."

Ramsey decided to come to the point. "I want his job."

The admiral's melancholy pupils lit with approval. "Member, Joint Chiefs of Staff. I never made it that far."

"You could have."

The old man shook his head. "Reagan and I didn't get along. He had his favorites, or at least his aides had their favorites, and I wasn't on that list. Besides, it was time for me to leave."

"What about you and Daniels? Are you on his favorites list?"

He caught something hard and unbending in Dyals' expression.

"Langford," Dyals said, "you know that the president is no friend of ours. He's been hard on the military. Budgets have been slashed, programs curtailed. He doesn't even think we need the Joint Chiefs."

"He's wrong."

"Maybe. But he's the president, and he's popular. Like Reagan was, just with a different philosophy."

"Surely there are military officers he respects. Men you know. Their support of my candidacy could make the difference."