Steve Berry - The Charlemagne Pursuit

RAMSEY REENTERED HIS OFFICE, FINISHED WITH THE LAST INTERVIEW of the day. Diane McCoy sat inside, where he'd told Hovey to have her wait. He closed the door. "Okay, what's so important?"

She'd been electronically swept and was clean of listening devices. He knew his office was secure, so he sat with confidence.

"I want more," she told him.

She wore a gun-check wool tweed suit in calming shades of brown and camel, with a black turtleneck underneath. A tad casual and expensive looking for a White House staffer, but stylish. Her coat lay across another of the chairs.

"More of what?" he asked.

"There's a man who goes by the name Charles C. Smith Jr. He works for you, and has for a long time. You pay him well, albeit through a variety of false names and numbered accounts. He's your killer, the one who took care of Admiral Sylvian and a whole group of others."

He was amazed, but stayed composed. "Any proof?"

She laughed. "Like I'm going to tell you. Just suffice it to say I know, and that's what matters." She grinned. "You may well be the first person in US military history to have actually murdered his way to the top. Damn, Langford, you truly are an ambitious SOB."

He needed to know. "What do you want?"

"You have your appointment. That's what you wanted. I'm sure that's not all, but that's all for the moment. So far the reaction has been good to your selection, so you seem on your way."

He agreed. Any serious problems would quickly surface once the public knew he was the president's choice. That's when anonymous phone calls to the press would start and the politics of destruction would take over. After eight hours, nothing had yet surfaced, but she was right. He had murdered his way to the top so, thanks to Charlie Smith, anyone who could possibly be a problem was already dead.

Which reminded him. Where was Smith?

He'd been so busy with interviews, he'd forgotten all about him. He'd told the idiot to take care of the professor and return by nightfall, and the sun was now setting.

"You've been a busy girl," he said.

"I've been a smart girl. I have access to information networks you could only dream about."

He didn't doubt that. "And you plan to hurt me?"

"I plan to wreck the living hell out of you."

"Unless what?"

A ripple of amused laughter drifted across her face. This bitch was definitely enjoying herself.

"This is all about you, Langford."

He shrugged. "You want to be a part of what happens after Daniels? I'll make that happen."

"Do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck?"

He grinned. "Now you sound like Daniels."

"That's because he says that to me at least twice a week. Usually I deserve it, since I am playing him. He's smart, I'll give him that. But I'm no fool. I want a damn lot more."

He had to hear her out, but a strange uneasiness accompanied his forced patience.

"I want money."

"How much?"

"Twenty million dollars."

"How did you arrive at that figure?"

"I can live comfortably off the interest for the rest of my life. I did the math."

An almost sexual enjoyment danced in her eyes.

"I assume you would want this offshore, in a blind account, accessible only to you?"

"Just like Charles C. Smith Jr. With a few more stipulations, but those can come later."

He tried to remain calm. "What brought this on?"

"You're going to screw me. I know it, you know it. I tried to get you on tape, but you were too smart. So I thought, Lay it on the table. Tell him what I know. Make a deal. Get something, up front. Call it a down payment. An investment. That way you'll be more hesitant to shaft me later. I'll be bought and paid for, ready to use."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you'll end up in prison or, better yet, maybe I'll find Charles C. Smith Jr. and see what he has to say."

He said nothing.

"Or maybe I'll just dangle you out in the press."

"And what will you tell the reporters?"

"I'll start with Millicent Senn."

"And what would you know of her?"

"Young naval officer, assigned to your staff in Brussels. You had a relationship with her. And then, lo and behold, she becomes pregnant and a few weeks later is dead. Failed heart. The Belgians ruled it natural. Case closed."

This woman was well informed. He worried that his silence might be more explicit than any response, so he said, "No one would believe that."

"Maybe not now, but it makes for a great story. The kind of thing the press loves. Especially Extra and Inside Edition. Did you know that Millicent's father still believes, to this day, she was murdered? He'd gladly go on camera. Her brother-who's a lawyer, by the way-also has doubts. Of course, they don't know anything about you or your relationship with her. They also don't know that you liked to beat the crap out of her. What do you think they, the Belgian authorities, or the press would do with all that?"

She had him, and knew it.

"This is no setup, Langford. It's not about getting you to admit anything. I don't need your admissions. It's about looking after me. I. Want. Money."

"And, for the sake of argument, if I agreed, what would stop you from shaking me down again?"

"Not one thing," she said through clenched teeth.

He allowed himself a grin, then a chuckle. "You are a devil."

She returned the compliment. "Seems we're perfect for each other."

He liked the amicable note in her voice. Never had he suspected that so much larceny coursed through her veins. Aatos Kane would like nothing more than to rid himself of his obligation, and even the hint of scandal would offer the senator a perfect opportunity. I'm willing to hold up my end, Kane would say, you're the one with problems.

And there'd be nothing he could do.

It would take reporters less than an hour to verify that his tour of duty in Brussels coincided with Millicent's. Edwin Davis had also been there and that romantic fool had a thing for Millicent. He'd known that at the time, but could not have cared less. Davis had been weak and unimportant. Not anymore. God knew where he was. He'd heard nothing about Davis in several days. But the woman sitting across from him was a different matter. She had a loaded gun, aimed straight at him, and knew where to shoot.

"Okay. I'll pay."

She reached into her jacket pocket and removed a sheet of paper. "Here's the bank and routing number. Make the payment, in full, within the next hour."

She tossed it on the desk.

He did not move.

She smiled. "Don't look so glum."

He said nothing.

"Tell you what," she said, "To show you my good faith, and my willingness to work with you on a permanent basis, once the payment is confirmed I'm going to give you something else you really want."

She stood from the chair.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Me. I'm yours tomorrow night. So long as I get paid in the next hour."

DOROTHEA WAS NOT HAPPY. THE PLANE BUMPED ITS WAY THROUGH rough air like a truck on a pitted dirt road, which brought back memories of her childhood and trips to the lodge with her father. They'd loved the outdoors. While Christl shunned guns and hunting, she'd loved both. It had been something she and her father had shared. Unfortunately, they'd only enjoyed a few seasons. She was ten when he died. Or, better put, when he never came back home again. And that sad thought scooped out another crater in the pit of her stomach, deepening an emptiness that seemed to never abate.

It was after her father's disappearance that she and Christl had drifted farther apart. Different friends, interests, tastes. Lives. How did two people who sprang from the same egg grow so distant?