The Charlemagne Pursuit (31 page)

FIFTY-EIGHT

ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA
10:40 AM

C
HARLIE
S
MITH STUDIED THE FILE ON
D
OUGLAS
S
COFIELD
. H
E’D
prepped this target over a year ago, but, unlike the others, this man had always been labeled optional.

Not anymore.

Apparently plans had changed, so he needed to refresh his memory.

He’d left Charlotte, heading north on US 321 to Hickory, where he’d veered onto I-40 and sped west toward the Smoky Mountains. He’d checked on the Internet, verifying that information in the file remained accurate. Dr. Scofield was scheduled to speak at a symposium he hosted every winter, this year’s on the grounds of the famous Biltmore Estate. The event seemed a gathering of weirdos. Ufology, ghosts, necrology, alien abductions, cryptozoology. Lots of bizarre subjects. Scofield, though a professor of anthropology at a Tennessee university, was deeply involved with pseudo-science, authoring a host of books and articles. Since Smith had not known when, or if, he’d be ordered to move on Douglas Scofield, he hadn’t given much thought to the man’s demise.

He was now parked outside a McDonald’s, a hundred yards from the entrance to Biltmore Estate.

He casually scanned the file.

Scofield’s interests varied. He loved hunting, spending many a winter weekend in search of deer and wild boar. A bow was his choice of weapon, though he owned an impressive collection of high-powered rifles. Smith still carried the one he’d taken from Herbert Rowland’s house, lying in the trunk, loaded, just in case. Fishing and white-water rafting were more of Scofield’s passions, though this time of year opportunities for either would be limited.

He’d downloaded the conference schedule, trying to digest any aspects that might prove useful. He was troubled by the previous night’s escapade. Those two had not been there by accident. Though he savored every bit of the conceit that swirled inside him—after all, confidence was everything—there was no sense being foolish.

He needed to be prepared.

Two aspects of the conference schedule caught his attention, and two ideas formed.

One defensive, the other offensive.

He hated rush jobs, but wasn’t about to concede to Ramsey that he couldn’t handle it.

He grabbed his cell phone and found the number in Atlanta.

Thank goodness Georgia was nearby.

M
ALONE, REACTING TO
I
SABEL’S WARNING, SAID TO HER
, “I
ONLY
have one round left.”

She spoke to Henn, who reached beneath his coat, produced a handgun, and tossed it down. Malone caught the weapon. Two spare magazines followed.

“You come prepared,” he said.

“Always,” Isabel said.

He pocketed the magazines.

“Pretty bold of you to trust me earlier,” Werner said.

“Like I had a choice.”

“Still.”

Malone glanced at Christl and Dorothea. “You three take cover somewhere.” He motioned beyond the altar to the apse. “Back there looks good.”

He watched as they hustled off then called up to Isabel, “Could we take at least one of them alive?”

Henn was already gone.

She nodded. “It depends on them.”

He heard two shots from inside the church.

“Ulrich has engaged them,” she said.

He rushed through the nave, back into the vestibule, and exited into the cloister. He spotted one of the men on the far side, scurrying between the arches. Daylight waned. The temperature had noticeably dropped.

More shots.

From outside the church.

S
TEPHANIE EXITED I-40 ONTO A BUSY BOULEVARD AND FOUND
the main entrance to Biltmore Estate. She’d actually visited here twice before, once, like now, during the Christmas season. The estate comprised thousands of acres, the centerpiece being a 175,000-square-foot French Renaissance château, the largest privately owned residence in America. Originally a country retreat for George Vanderbilt, built in the late 1880s, it had evolved into a swanky tourist attraction, a glowing testament to America’s lost Gilded Age.

A collection of brick and pebbledash houses, many with steep gabled roofs, timbered dormers, and wide porches crowded together to her left. Brick sidewalks lined cozy, tree-lined streets. Pine boughs and Christmas ribbons draped street lamps and a zillion white lights lit the fading afternoon for the holidays.

“Biltmore Village,” she said. “Where estate workers and servants once lived. Vanderbilt built them their own town.”

“Like something from Dickens.”

“They made it seem like an English country village. Now it’s shops and cafés.”

“You know a lot about this place.”

“It’s one of my favorite spots.”

She noticed a McDonald’s, its architecture consistent with the picturesque surroundings. “I need a bathroom break.” She slowed and turned into the restaurant’s parking lot.

“One of their milk shakes would be good,” Davis said.

“You have a strange diet.”

He shrugged. “Whatever fills the stomach.”

She checked her watch. 11:15
AM
. “A quick stop, then into the estate. The hotel is a mile or so inside the gates.”

C
HARLIE
S
MITH ORDERED HIMSELF A
B
IG
M
AC, NO SAUCE, NO
onions, fries, and a large Diet Coke. One of his favorite meals, and since he weighed about 150 pounds sopping wet, weight had never been a concern. He was blessed with a hyper metabolism—that and an active lifestyle, exercise three times a week, and a healthy diet. Yeah, right. His idea of exercise was dialing for room service or carrying a take-out bag to the car. His job provided more than enough exertion for him.

He leased an apartment outside Washington, DC, but rarely stayed there. He needed to develop roots. Maybe it was time to buy a place of his own—like Bailey Mill. He’d been screwing with Ramsey’s head the other day, but perhaps he could fix up that old Maryland farmhouse and live there, in the country. It’d be quaint. Like the buildings that now surrounded him. Even the McDonald’s didn’t look like any he’d ever seen. Shaped like a storybook house with a player piano in the dining room, marble tiles, and a shimmering waterfall.

He sat with his tray.

After he ate, he’d head toward the Biltmore Inn. He’d already reserved a room online for the next two nights. A classy place and pricey, too. But he liked the best. Deserved it, actually. And, besides, Ramsey paid expenses, so what did he care what it cost?

The schedule for the 14th Annual Ancient Mysteries Revealed Conference, also posted online, noted that Douglas Scofield would serve tomorrow evening as the keynote speaker at a dinner, included with the registration. A cocktail party would be held before the event in the hotel’s lobby.

He’d heard of Biltmore Estate but never visited. Maybe he’d tour the mansion and see how the other half once lived. Get some decorating ideas. After all, he could afford quality. Who said killing didn’t pay? He’d amassed nearly twenty million dollars from fees and investments. He’d also meant what he’d said to Ramsey the other day. He did not intend on doing this for the rest of his life, no matter how much he enjoyed the work.

He squirted a dab of mustard and a smear of ketchup on his Big Mac. He didn’t like a lot of condiments, just enough to give it flavor. He munched on the burger and watched the people, many clearly here to visit Biltmore at Christmas and shop in the village.

The whole place seemed geared to tourists.

Which was great.

Lots of obscure faces among which to disappear.

M
ALONE HAD TWO PROBLEMS
. F
IRST, HE WAS PURSUING AN UNKNOWN
gunman through a dim, frigid cloister, and second, he was relying on allies that were wholly untrustworthy.

Two things had clued him in.

First, Werner Lindauer.
I knew Herr Malone was here, with a gun.
Really? Since in their brief encounter Malone had not once mentioned who he was, how did Werner know? Nobody in the church had uttered his name.

And second, the gunman.

Never once had he seemed concerned that someone else was there, someone who’d shot his accomplice. Christl had indicated that she’d told her mother about Ossau. She could also have mentioned that he would come. But that wouldn’t explain Werner Lindauer’s presence or how he immediately knew Malone’s identity. And if Christl had provided the information, that act showed a level of Oberhauser cooperation that he’d thought didn’t exist.

All of which spelled trouble.

He stopped and listened to the wheezing of the wind. He stayed low, below the arches, knees aching. Across the garden, through the falling snow, he spotted no movement. Cold air burned his throat and lungs.

He shouldn’t be indulging his curiosity, but he couldn’t help it. Though he suspected what was happening, he needed to know.

D
OROTHEA WATCHED
W
ERNER, WHO CONFIDENTLY HELD THE GUN
Malone had offered. During the past twenty-four hours she’d learned a lot about this man. Things she’d never suspected.