with them a secure laptop, which Davis commandeered. The agents were ordered to take custody of Herbert Rowland, who was being moved into a new room under another name. Davis had spoken with the hospital administrator and obtained her cooperation in announcing that Rowland had died. Surely somebody was going to check. Sure enough, the patient information operator had already reported a call twenty minutes ago-from a male who identified himself as a nephew-inquiring into Rowland's condition.
'That should make him happy,' Davis said. 'I doubt our killer will risk a trip inside. To make sure, there'll be an obituary in the paper. I've told the agents to explain it all to the Rowlands and get their cooperation.'
'A bit rough on friends and family,' she said.
'It'll be rougher if the guy realizes his mistake and comes back to finish what he started.'
The laptop signaled an incoming e-mail. Stephanie clicked open the message from her office:
Douglas Scofield is a professor of anthropology at East Tennessee State University. He was associated with the navy from 1968 to 1972 on a contract basis, his activities classified. Access is possible but will leave a trail, so it wasn't done as you indicated silence on these inquiries. His published works are numerous. Besides the usual anthropological journals, he writes for New Age and occult magazines. A quick Internet check revealed subject matters that include Atlantis, UFOs, ancient astronauts, and paranormal events. He's the author of Maps of Ancient Explorers (1986), a popular account of how cartography may have been influenced by lost cultures. He is currently attending a conference in Asheville, North Carolina, titled Ancient Mysteries Revealed. Being held at the Inn on Biltmore Estate. About 150 registered. He's one of the organizers and a featured speaker. Seems an annual event, as this is billed as the fourteenth conference.
'He's the only one left,' Davis said. He'd been reading over her shoulder. 'Asheville's not far from here.'
She knew what he was thinking. 'You're not serious.'
'I'm going. You can come if you want. He needs to be approached.'
'Then send the Secret Service.'
'Stephanie, the last thing we need is a show of force. Let's just go and see where it leads.'
'Our friend from last night may be there, too.'
'We can only hope.'
Another ding singled an answer to her second inquiry, so she opened the reply and read:
The navy leases warehouse space at Fort Lee, Virginia. They have since World War II. Presently, they control three buildings. Only one is high security and contains a refrigerated compartment installed in 1972. Access is restricted by numeric code and fingerprint verification through Office of Naval Intelligence. I managed to view its visitor log stored on the navy's database. Interestingly, it's not classified. Only one non-Fort Lee personnel entered during the last 180 days. Admiral Langford Ramsey, yesterday.
'Still want to argue with me?' Davis asked. 'You know I'm right.'
'All the more reason for us to get help.'
Davis shook his head. 'The president won't let us.'
'Wrong. You won't let us.'
Davis' face conveyed challenge and submission. 'I have to do this. Maybe you have to do it now, too. Remember, Malone's father was on that boat.'
'Which Cotton should know.'
'Let's get him some answers first.'
'Edwin, you could have been killed last night.'
'But I wasn't.'
'Revenge is the quickest way to get yourself killed. Why don't you let me handle this? I have agents.'
They remained alone in a small conference room the hospital administrator had provided.
'That's not going to happen,' he said.
She could see arguing was pointless. Forrest Malone had been on that sub-and Davis was right, that was enough incentive for her.
She shut down the laptop and stood.
'I'd say we have about a three-hour ride to Asheville.'
'WHO ARE YOU?' MALONE ASKED THE MAN.
'You scared me to death.'
'Answer my question.'
'Werner Lindauer.'
He made the connection. 'Dorothea's husband?'
The man nodded. 'My passport's in my pocket.'
No time for that. He withdrew the gun and yanked his captive back into the side room, out of the gallery. 'What are you doing here?'
'Dorothea walked here three hours ago. I came to see about her.'
'How did she find this place?'
'You apparently don't know Dorothea that well. She doesn't explain herself. Christl is here, too.'
That, he had expected. He'd waited in the hotel, believing she either knew of this place or would locate it the same way he'd managed.
'She came up here before Dorothea.'
He turned his attention back into the cloister. Time to see what was inside the church. He motioned with the gun. 'You first. To the right and into that doorway at the end.'
'Is that wise?'
'Nothing about this is smart.'
He followed Werner into the gallery, then through the double archway at its end, and immediately sought cover behind a thick column. A wide nave, made to seem narrow by more columns that extended its length, stretched before him. The columns turned in a semicircle behind the altar, following the curve of the apse. Bare walls on either side were high, the aisles broad. No decoration or ornamentation anywhere, the church more ruin than building. The wind's haunting music sounded through bare window frames partitioned by stone crosses. He spotted the altar, a pillar of pitted granite, but what sat before it drew his attention.
Two people. Gagged.
One on either side, on the floor, their arms tied behind them around a column.
Dorothea and Christl.
FIFTY-SIX
7:24 AM
RAMSEY MARCHED BACK TOWARD HIS OFFICE. HE WAS WAITING FOR a report from France and had made clear to the men overseas that he wanted to hear only that Cotton Malone was dead. After that he'd turn his attention to Isabel Oberhauser, but he had not, as yet, decided how best to handle that problem. He'd thought about her during the entire briefing he'd just attended, recalling something he'd once heard. I've been right and I've been paranoid and it's better being paranoid.
He agreed.
Luckily he knew a lot about the old woman.
She married Dietz Oberhauser in the late 1950s. He was the son of a wealthy, aristocratic Bavarian family, she
