course, for that favor Kane had once needed.
'Fine way to thank your friends,' Ramsey said.
'Who said you were our friend?'
A weariness creased his forehead that he quickly masked. He should have seen it coming. Arrogance. The most common illness afflicting longtime politicians. 'No, you're right. That was presumptuous of me.'
The man's face lost its impassive look. 'Get this straight, Admiral. Senator Kane thanks you for what you did. We would have preferred another way, but he still appreciates it. He repaid you, though, when he blocked the navy from transferring you. Not once, but twice. We sent a full blitz into the backfield on that one. That's what you wanted and that's what we gave you. You don't own Aatos Kane. Not now. Not ever. What you're asking is impossible. In less than sixty days the senator will be an announced candidate for the White House. You're an admiral who should retire. Do it. Enjoy a well-earned rest.'
He submerged any defensiveness and simply nodded in understanding.
'And one more thing. The senator resented your call this morning demanding that we meet. He sent me to tell you that this relationship is over. No more visits, no more calls. Now I have to go.'
'Of course. Don't let me keep you.'
'Look, Admiral, I know you're pissed. I would be, too. But you're not going on the Joint Chiefs. Retire. Become a Fox TV analyst and tell the world what a bunch of idiots we are. Enjoy life.'
He said nothing and simply watched as the prick paraded off, surely proud of his stellar performance, eager to report how he'd put the head of naval intelligence in his place.
He walked to an empty bench and sat.
Cold seeped from its slats through his overcoat.
Senator Aatos Kane had no idea. Neither did his chief of staff.
But they were both about to find out.
THIRTY-THREE
1:00 PM
WILKERSON HAD SLEPT WELL, SATISFIED BOTH WITH HOW HE'D handled himself at the lodge and with Dorothea afterward. Having access to money, few responsibilities, and a beautiful woman weren't bad substitutes for not being an admiral.
Provided, of course, that he could stay alive.
In preparation for this assignment, he'd back-checked the Oberhauser family thoroughly. Assets in the billions, and not old money-ancient money that had lasted through centuries of political upheavals. Opportunists? Surely. Their family crest seemed to explain it all. A dog clutching a rat in its mouth, encased inside a crested cauldron. What myriad contradictions. Much like the family itself. But how else could they have survived?
Time, though, had taken a toll.
Dorothea and her sister were all the Oberhausers left.
Both beautiful, high-strung creatures. Nearing fifty. Identical in appearance, though each tried hard to distinguish herself. Dorothea had pursued business degrees and actively worked with her mother in the family concerns. She'd married in her early twenties and birthed a son, but he was killed five years ago, a week after his twentieth birthday, in a car accident. All reports indicated that she changed after that. Hardened. Became enslaved to deep anxieties and unpredictable moods. To shoot a man with a shotgun, as she'd done last night, then make love afterward with such an unfettered intensity, proved that dichotomy.
Business had never interested Christl, nor had marriage or children. He'd met her only once, at a social function Dorothea and her husband had attended when he'd first made contact. She was unassuming. An academician, like her father and grandfather, studying oddities, mulling the endless possibilities of legend and myth. Both of her master's theses had been on obscure connections between mythical ancient civilizations-like Atlantis, he'd found after reading both-and developing cultures. Fantasy, all of it. But the male Oberhausers had been fascinated by such ridiculousness, and Christl seemed to have inherited their curiosity. Her childbearing days were over, so he wondered what would happen after Isabel Oberhauser died. Two women who did not like each other-neither one of whom could leave blood heirs-would inherit it all.
A fascinating scenario with endless possibilities.
He was outside, in the cold, not far from their hotel, a magnificent establishment that would satisfy the whims of any king. Dorothea had called from the car last night to speak with the concierge, and a suite had been waiting when they arrived.
The sunny Marienplatz, which he now strolled, was crowded with tourists. A strange hush hung over the square, broken only by the scuff of soles and a murmur of voices. Within sight were department stores, cafes, the central market, a royal palace, and churches. The massive rathaus dominated one perimeter, its animated facade streaked with the darkened effects of centuries. He purposefully avoided the museum quarter and headed for one of several bakeries that were enjoying a brisk business. He was hungry and some chocolate pastries would be lovely.
Booths decorated with fragrant pine boughs dotted the square, part of the city's Christmas market, which stretched out of sight down the old town's busy main thoroughfare. He'd heard about the millions who came each year for the festivities but doubted he and Dorothea would have time to attend. She was on a mission. He was, too, which made him think of work. He needed to check with Berlin and maintain a presence for his employees' sake. So he found his cell phone and dialed.
'Captain Wilkerson,' his yeoman said, after answering. 'I was told to direct any call from you directly to Commander Bishop.'
Before he could ask why, the voice of his second in command came on the line. 'Captain, I have to ask where you are.'
His radar went to full alert. Never did Bryan Bishop call him Captain, unless other people were listening.
'What's the problem?' he asked.
'Sir, this call is being recorded. You've been relieved of all duties and declared a level-three security risk. Our orders are to locate and detain you.'
He grabbed hold of his emotions. 'Who gave those orders?'
'Office of the Director. Issued by Captain Hovey, signed by Admiral Ramsey.'
He'd actually been the one who recommended Bishop's promotion to commander. He was a compliant officer who followed orders with unquestioned zeal. Great then, bad now.
'Am I being sought?' he asked, and then a realization slammed into him and he clicked off the phone before hearing the answer.
He stared at the unit. They came with a built-in GPS locator for emergency tracking. Damn. That's how they'd found him last night. He hadn't been thinking. Of course, he'd had no idea before the attack that he was a target. After, he'd been rattled and Ramsey-the SOB-had rocked him to sleep, buying time to dispatch another team.
His daddy had been right. Can't trust a one of them.
Suddenly a city of 120 square miles, with millions of inhabitants, transformed from a refuge into a prison. He glanced around at the people, all huddled in thick coats, darting in every direction.
And no longer wanted any pastries.
RAMSEY LEFT THE NATIONAL MALL AND DROVE INTO CENTRAL Washington, near Dupont Circle. Normally he used Charlie Smith for his special tasks, but that was currently impossible. Luckily he kept a variety of assets-all capable in their own way-on a call list. He had a reputation of paying well and promptly, which helped when he needed things done quickly.
He wasn't the only admiral jockeying for David Sylvian's post. He knew of at least five others who were surely
