Steve Berry - The Charlemagne Pursuit

"Perhaps it eases your conscience to think me a fool," he said. "Maybe it justifies your rejection of our marriage, and me."

She cautioned herself that he was an expert at baiting her.

"But I'm no fool."

She was curious. "What do you know of Christl?"

He pointed at the door. "I know she's in there with Malone. You understand what that means?"

"Tell me."

"She's forging an alliance. Malone is connected to the Americans. Your mother chose her allies carefully-Malone can make things happen when we need them to happen. How else could we get to Antarctica? Christl is doing your mother's bidding."

He was right. "Tell me, Werner, are you enjoying the possibility of my failure?"

"If I were, I wouldn't be here. I'd simply let you fail."

Something in his desultory tone triggered alarm. He definitely knew more than he was saying and she hated his hedging.

She repressed a sudden shudder at the realization that this man, more stranger than husband, attracted her.

"When you killed the man at the lodge," he asked, "did you feel anything?"

"Relief." The word slipped out from between clenched teeth.

He stood impassive, seemingly considering the admission. "We must prevail, Dorothea. If that means cooperating with your mother, and Christl, so be it. We cannot allow your sister to dominate this quest."

"You and Mother have been working together for some time, haven't you?"

"She misses Georg as much as we do. He was this family's future. Now its entire existence is in doubt. There are no more Oberhausers."

She caught something in his tone and saw it in his eye. What he really wanted. "You can't be serious?" she asked.

"You're only forty-eight. Childbirth is still possible."

Werner came close and gently kissed her on the neck.

She slapped him across the face.

He laughed. "Intense emotion. Violence. So you are human, after all."

Beads of sweat formed on her forehead, though the room was not warm. She was not going to listen to him anymore.

She headed for the door.

He lunged forward, grabbed her arm, and spun her around.

"You're not going to walk away from me. Not this time."

"Let go." But it was a weak command. "You are a despicable bastard. The sight of you makes me sick."

"Your mother has made clear that if we conceive she will give it all to you." He wrenched her close. "Hear me, woman. Everything to you. Christl has no need for children or a husband. But maybe the same offer was made to her, as well? Where is she right now?"

He was close. In her face.

"Use your brain. Your mother has pitted the two of you against each other to learn what happened to her husband. But above all, she wants this family to continue. The Oberhausers have money, status, and assets. What they lack is heirs."

She freed herself from his grip. He was right. Christl was with Ma lone. And her mother could never be trusted. Had the same offer of an heir been made to her?

"We're ahead of her," he said. "Our child would be legitimate."

She hated herself. But the son of a bitch made sense.

"Shall we get started?" he asked.

STEPHANIE WAS A LITTLE DISCONCERTED. DAVIS HAD DECIDED they'd stay the night and reserved one room for them both.

"I'm not ordinarily this kind of girl," she said to him as he opened the door. "Going to a hotel on the first date."

"I don't know. I heard you're easy."

She popped him on the back of the head. "You wish."

He faced her. "Here we are at a romantic four-star hotel. Last night we had a great date huddled in the freezing cold, then getting shot at. We're really bonding."

She smiled. "Don't remind me. And by the way, love your subtlety with Scofield. Worked great. He warmed right up to you."

"He's an arrogant, self-absorbed know-it-all."

"Who was there in 1971, and knows more than you and me."

He plopped down onto a bright floral bedspread. The whole room looked like something out of a Southern Living magazine. Fine furnishings, elegant curtains, decor inspired by English and French manor houses. She actually would like to savor the deep tub. She hadn't bathed since yesterday morning in Atlanta. Is this what her agents routinely experienced? Wasn't she supposed to be in charge?

"Premier king room," he said. "It's all they had available. Its rate is way over government per diem but what the hell. You're worth it."

She sank into one of the upholstered club chairs and propped her feet on a matching footstool. "If you can handle all this togetherness, I can, too. I have a feeling we're not going to get much sleep anyway."

"He's here," Davis said. "I know it."

She wasn't so sure, but she could not deny a bad feeling swirling around in her stomach.

"Scofield is in the Wharton Suite on the sixth floor. He gets it every year," Davis said.

"Desk clerk let all that slip?"

He nodded. "She doesn't like Scofield, either."

Davis fished the conference pamphlet from his pocket. "He's leading a tour of the Biltmore mansion in a little while. Then, tomorrow morning, he's going boar hunting."

"If our man's here, that's plenty of opportunities for him to make a move, not counting the time tonight in the hotel room."

She watched Davis' face. Usually its features never gave away a thing, but the mask had faded. He was anxious. She felt a dark reluctance mingling with an intense curiosity, so she asked, "What are you going to do when you finally find him?"

"Kill him."

"That would be murder."

"Maybe. But I doubt our man will go down without a fight."

"You loved her that much?"

"Men shouldn't hit women."

She wondered who he was talking to. Her? Millicent? Ramsey?

"I couldn't do anything before," he said. "I can now." His face clouded over once again, belying all emotion. "Now tell me what the president didn't want me to know."

She'd been waiting for him to ask. "It's about your co-worker." She told him where Diane McCoy had gone. "He trusts you, Edwin. More than you know." She saw he caught what she hadn't said. Don't let him down.

"I won't disappoint him."

"You can't kill this man, Edwin. We need him alive, to get Ramsey. Otherwise the real problem walks."

"I know." Defeat laced his voice.

He stood.

"We need to go."

They'd stopped by the registration desk and signed up for the remainder of the conference before coming upstairs, obtaining two tickets for the candlelight tour.

"We have to stay close to Scofield," he said. "Whether he likes it or not."

CHARLIE SMITH ENTERED THE BILTMORE MANSION, FOLLOWING the private tour inside. When he'd registered for the Ancient Mysteries Revealed Conference under another name, he'd been presented a ticket for the event. A little quick reading in the inn's gift shop informed him that from early November until New Year's the mansion offered so-called magical evenings where visitors could enjoy the chateau filled with candlelight, blazing fireplaces, holiday decorations, and live musical performances. Entry times were reserved, and tonight's was extra special since it was the last tour of the day, open only for conference attendees.

They'd been ferried from the inn in two Biltmore buses-about eighty people, he estimated. He was dressed like the others, winter colors, wool coat, dark shoes. On the trip over he'd struck up a conversation about Star Trek with another attendee. They'd discussed which series they liked best, he arguing that Enterprise was by far superior, though his listener had preferred Voyager.

"Everyone," Scofield was saying, as they stood in the frigid night before the main doors, "follow me. You're in for a real treat."

The crowd entered through an elaborate iron grille. He'd read that each room inside would be decorated for Christmas, as George Vanderbilt had done, starting in 1885 when the estate was first opened.