Steve Berry - The Charlemagne Pursuit

"Get me that info on her now," he ordered again.

Hovey left his office. He picked up the phone and dialed Charlie Smith. Four rings and the call was answered.

"Where are you?"

"Having a delicious meal."

He didn't want any details, but he knew what was coming.

"The dining room is lovely. A large room with a fireplace, elegantly decorated. Soft lighting, relaxed appeal. And the service. Superb. My water glass has yet to get half empty and the bread basket stays full. The manager even wandered by a minute ago and made sure I was enjoying the meal."

"Charlie, shut up."

"Touchy today."

"Listen to me. I assume you're doing as I asked."

"As always."

"I need you back here tomorrow, so make it quick."

"They just brought a dessert sampler of creme brulee and chocolate mousse. You really should visit here."

He didn't want to hear another word. "Charlie, just do it and get back by tomorrow afternoon."

SMITH CLICKED OFF HIS PHONE AND TURNED HIS ATTENTION BACK to his dessert. Across the main dining room of the Inn on Biltmore Estate, Dr. Douglas Scofield sat at a table, with three others, eating his own lunch.

STEPHANIE DESCENDED THE CARPETED STAIRWAY AND ENTERED the inn's spacious dining room, stopping at the hostess' podium. Another flagstone hearth accommodated a crackling fire. Most of the white-clothed tables were occupied. She noticed fine china, crystal glasses, brass chandeliers, and lots of maroon, gold, green, and beige fabrics. One hundred percent southern in look and feel. Davis was still holding the conference pamphlet and she knew what he was doing. Looking for a face to match Douglas Scofield's prominent picture.

She saw him first, at a window table with three others. Then Davis caught sight. She grabbed his sleeve and shook her head. "Not this time. We can't make a scene."

"I'm not going to."

"He has people with him. Let's get a table and wait until he's done, then approach him."

"We don't have time for that."

"And where do we have to be?"

"I don't know about you, but I'm anxious to watch the channeling with the Pleiadians at one."

She smiled. "You're impossible."

"But I'm growing on you."

She decided to surrender and released her grip.

Davis wove his way ahead and she followed.

They approached the table. Davis said, "Dr. Scofield, I was wondering if I might have a word with you."

Scofield appeared to be in his midsixties, with a broad nose, a bald pate, and teeth that looked too straight and too white to be real. His fleshy face betrayed a testiness that his dark eyes immediately confirmed.

"I'm having lunch at the moment."

Davis' face stayed cordial. "I need to speak with you. It's quite important."

Scofield laid his fork down. "As you can see, I am engaged with these people. I understand you're here at the conference and want some time with me, but I have to budget that carefully."

"Why is that?"

She didn't like the sound of the question. Davis had apparently also caught the I'm important subtext to Scofield's explanation.

The professor sighed and pointed to the pamphlet Davis held. "I do this every year, so that I can be available for those interested in my research. I realize you want to discuss things, and that's fine. Once I'm done here, perhaps we could talk upstairs, near the piano?"

Irritation remained in his tone. The other three diners likewise seemed annoyed. One them said, "We've been waiting for this lunch all year."

"And you'll have it," Davis said. "As soon as I'm done."

"Who are you?" Scofield asked.

"Name's Raymond Dyals, retired navy."

She watched as recognition clicked in Scofield.

"Okay, Mr. Dyals, and by the way you must have discovered the fountain of youth."

"You'll be surprised what I've discovered."

Scofield's eyes flickered. "Then you and I definitely need to talk."

MALONE DECIDED TO ACT. HE SWUNG THE GUN AROUND AND FIRED two rounds across the cloister garden. He had no idea of the assailant's position, but the message was clear.

He was armed.

A bullet bisected the doorway and sent him reeling back.

He determined its origin.

From the second gunman, on his side of the gallery, to his right.

He stared up. The gabled roof was held aloft by trusses formed from rough-hewn beams stretching the room's width. A jumble of broken rocks and debris littered the floor and lay piled against one of the decaying walls. He stuffed the gun into his jacket pocket and scrambled atop the largest chunks, which provided him two new feet of height. He leaped up, grabbed the cold beam, swung his legs upward, and straddled the timber like a horse. He quickly wiggled his way closer to the wall, only now he was ten feet above the doorway. He sprang to his feet, crouched, and balanced on the beam, regripping the gun, his muscles like bundles of tightly bound cord.

Shots rang out from the cloister. Several.

Perhaps Henn had joined the fray?

He heard another impact, similar to when Werner tackled Dark in the church, along with grunts, breathing, and fighting. He couldn't see anything except the stones on the floor below, cast in dimness thanks to only bleak light.

A shadow appeared.

He readied himself.

Two shots were fired and the man rushed into the room.

Malone leaped from the beam, crashing into the attacker, quickly rolling off and readying himself for a fight.

The man was hefty and broad-shouldered, the body hard, as if there were metal under the skin. He'd quickly recoiled from the assault and sprang to his feet-without the gun, which had slipped from his grasp.

Malone raked the side of his automatic across the man's face, sending him into the wall, dazed. He leveled the gun and prepared to take his prisoner, but a shot exploded behind him and the man dropped to the rubble.

He whirled.

Henn stood, gun aimed, just outside the doorway.

Christl appeared.

No need to inquire why the shot was necessary. He knew. But he wanted to know, "The other one?"

"Dead," Christl told him as she retrieved the weapon from the floor.

"Mind if I hold that?" he asked.

She tried to banish the surprise from her eyes. "You're a distrustful sort."

"It comes from people lying to me."

She handed him the gun.

STEPHANIE SAT WITH DAVIS AND SCOFIELD, UPSTAIRS, WHERE THE main lobby emptied into an alcove dotted with plush upholstered chairs, a panoramic view, and built-in bookshelves. People were studying the titles, and she noticed a small sign that said everything was available for reading.

A waiter sauntered over, but she waved him off.

"Since you're obviously not Admiral Dyals," Scofield said, "who are you?"

"White House," Davis said. "She's Justice Department. We fight crime."

Scofield seemed to repress a shudder. "I agreed to talk with you because I thought you were serious."

"Like this bullshit here," Davis said.

Scofield's face reddened. "None of us considers this conference bullshit."

"Really? There are what, a hundred people in a room right now trying to channel some dead civilization. You're a trained anthropologist, a man the government once used on some highly classified research."

"That was a long time ago."

"You'd be surprised how relevant it still is."

"I assume you have identification?"

"We do."

"Let me see."

"Somebody killed Herbert Rowland last night," Davis said. "The night before they killed a former navy commander connected to Rowland. You may or may not remember Rowland, but he worked with you at Fort Lee, when you uncrated all that crap from Operation Highjump. We're not sure you're next to die, but it's a good possibility. That enough credentials?"