From what he'd read on the Internet, Bertrand, the first bishop, made quite a name for himself. Legend attributed many wonders to his miraculous powers. Nearby Spanish chieftains routinely left a trail of fire and blood across the Pyrenees, and the local population was terrified of them. But before Bertrand they surrendered their prisoners and retreated, never to return.
And there was the miracle.
A woman had brought her baby and complained that the father would not support them. When the man denied any complicity, Bertrand ordered that a vessel of cold water be placed before them and he dropped a rock inside. He told the man to take the stone from the water and, if he was lying, God would give a sign. The man lifted the stone but his hands came away scalded, as if boiled. The father promptly admitted his paternity and made proper amends. For his piety Bertrand eventually acquired a label-the Brightness of God. He supposedly shunned the description but allowed it to be applied to the monastery, apparently remembered by Einhard, decades later, as he drew up his last will and testament.
Malone left the columns and passed into the cloister, an irregular-roofed trapezoid lined with arches, columns, and capitals. Roof timbers, which appeared to be new, seemed to have been the focus of recent restorations. Two rooms led off the right side of the cloister, both empty, one with no roof, the other with collapsed walls. Surely once refectories for the monks and guests, but only the elements and animals now possessed them.
He turned a corner and advanced down the short side of the gallery, passing several more collapsed spaces, each dusted with snow from either empty window frames or open roofs, brown nettles and weeds infecting their recesses. Above one door a faded carved image of the Virgin Mary stared down. He glanced beyond the doorway into a spacious room. Probably the chapter house where the monks had lived. He stared back out into the cloister garden at a crumbling basin with faint leaf and head decorations. Snow engulfed its base.
Something moved across the cloister.
In the opposite gallery. Fast and faint, but there.
He crouched and crept to the corner.
The long side of the cloister stretched fifty feet before him, ending at a double archway with no doors. The church. He assumed that whatever was to be found would be there, but this was a long shot. Still, somebody had cut the chain outside.
He studied the inner wall to his right.
Three doorways opened between him and the cloister's end. Arches to his left, which framed the windy garden, were all severe, bearing scarcely any ornamentation. Time and the elements had taken their toll. He noticed one lonely cherub that had survived, bearing an armorial shield. He heard something, from his left, in the long gallery.
Footsteps.
Coming his way.
RAMSEY LEFT HIS CAR AND HUSTLED THROUGH THE COLD, ENTERING naval intelligence's main administrative building. He was not required to pass through any security checkpoint. Instead a lieutenant from his staff waited at the door. On the walk to his office, he received his usual morning briefing.
Hovey was waiting in his office. 'Wilkerson's body has been found.'
'Tell me.'
'In Munich, near Olympic Park. Shot in the head.'
'You should be pleased.'
'Good riddance.'
But Ramsey wasn't as thrilled. The conversation with Isabel Oberhauser still weighed on his mind.
'Do you want me to authorize payment to the contract help who handled the job?'
'Not yet.' He'd already called overseas. 'I have them doing something else, in France, at the moment.'
CHARLIE SMITH SAT INSIDE SHONEY'S AND FINISHED HIS BOWL OF grits. He loved them, especially with salt and three pats of butter. He hadn't slept much. Last night was a problem. Those two had come for him.
He'd fled the house and parked a few miles down the highway. He'd spotted an ambulance rushing to the scene and followed it to a hospital on the outskirts of Charlotte. He'd wanted to go inside, but decided against the move. Instead he'd returned to his hotel and tried to sleep.
He would have to call Ramsey shortly. The only acceptable report was that all three targets had been eliminated. Any hint of a problem and Smith would find himself a target. He taunted Ramsey, took advantage of their long-standing relationship, exploited his successes, all because he knew Ramsey needed him.
But that would change in an instant if he failed.
He checked his watch.
6:15 AM.
He had to risk it.
He'd noticed a phone outside, so he paid his bill and made the call. When the hospital's menu was recited in his ear, he selected the option for patient information. Since he did not know the room number, he waited until an operator came on the line.
'I need to find out about Herbert Rowland. He's my uncle and was brought in last night.'
He was told to hold a moment, then the woman came back. 'We're sorry to say that Mr. Rowland died shortly after arriving.'
He feigned shock. 'That's horrible.'
The woman offered her condolences. He thanked her, hung up, and exhaled a sigh of relief.
That was close.
He grabbed his composure, found his cell phone, and dialed a familiar number. When Ramsey answered he cheerfully said, 'Three for three. Batting a thousand, as usual.'
'I'm so glad you take pride in your work.'
'We aim to please.'
'Then please me once more. The fourth one. You have the okay. Do it.'
MALONE LISTENED. SOMEBODY WAS BOTH BEHIND AND AHEAD OF him. He kept low and darted into one of the rooms that opened off the gallery, this one, he saw, with walls and a ceiling. He pressed his spine taut against the inner wall, adjacent to the doorway. Darkness exaggerated the room's shadowy corners. He was twenty feet from the church entrance.
More footsteps.
From back down the gallery, away from the church.
He gripped the gun and waited.
Whoever was there kept approaching. Had they seen him slip inside? Apparently not, as they made no effort to mask their steps through the brittle snow. He readied himself and cocked his head, using peripheral vision to watch the doorway. The footsteps were now on the opposite side of the wall against which he was pressed.
A form appeared, walking toward the church.
He pivoted and grabbed for a shoulder, swinging the gun around and whirling whoever it was into the outer wall, the gun jammed into ribs.
Shock stared back.
A man.
FIFTY-FIVE
STEPHANIE MADE A CALL TO MAGELLAN BILLET HEADQUARTERS and requested some information on Dr. Douglas Scofield. She and Davis were alone. Half an hour ago two Secret Service agents had arrived and brought
