The Charlemagne Pursuit by Steve Berry

was about to repeat it all.
    “Malone’s gone,” the woman said. “He drove off. I need my money.”
    “What happened on the mountain today? Your associate wasn’t supposed to be killed.”
    “Things blew out of hand.”
    “You drew a lot of attention to something that wasn’t supposed to be noticed.”
    “It worked out. Malone came, and you were able to have that chat you wanted.”
    “You may have jeopardized everything.”
    “I did what you asked me to do and I want to be paid. And I want Erik’s share. He definitely earned it.”
    “His death means nothing to you?” she asked.
    “He overreacted and it cost him.”
    Dorothea had quit smoking ten years ago, but she’d recently started again. Nicotine seemed to calm her constantly frayed nerves. She stepped to one of the painted cabinets, found a pack, and offered one to her guest.
    “ Danke, ” the woman said, accepting.
    She knew from their first meeting that the woman smoked. She selected a cigarette for herself, found some matches, and lit both.
    The woman sucked two deep drags. “My money, please.”
    “Of course.”
    She watched as the eyes changed first. A pensive gaze was replaced by rushing fear, pain, then desperation. Muscles in the woman’s face tightened, signaling agony. Fingers and lips released the cigarette and her hands reached for her throat. Her tongue sprang from her mouth and she gagged, sucking for air, and finding none.
    Her mouth foamed.
    She managed one last breath, coughed, and tried to speak, then her neck relaxed and her body collapsed.
    On the waft of her last exhale came a tinge of bitter almond.
    Cyanide. Skillfully laced into the tobacco.
    Interesting how the dead woman had worked for people she knew nothing about. Never once had she asked a single question. Dorothea had not made the same mistake. She’d thoroughly checked out her allies. The dead woman had been simple—money motivated her—but Dorothea could not risk a loose tongue.
    Cotton Malone? He could be a different story.
    Since something told her she wasn’t done with him.

 
    FIFTEEN
    WASHINGTON, DC
3:20 PM
     
    R AMSEY RETURNED TO THE N ATIONAL M ARITIME I NTELLIGENCE Center, which housed naval intelligence. He was greeted inside his private office by his chief of staff, an ambitious captain named Hovey.
    “What happened in Germany?” Ramsey immediately asked.
    “The NR-1A file was passed to Malone on the Zugspitze, as planned, but then all hell broke loose on the cable ride down.”
    He listened to Hovey’s explanation of what happened, then asked, “Where’s Malone?”
    “The GPS on his rental car has him all over the place. At his hotel for a while, then off to a place called Ettal Monastery. It’s about nine miles north of Garmisch. Last report had him on the road back toward Garmisch.”
    They’d wisely tagged Malone’s car, which allowed the luxury of satellite monitoring. He sat at his desk. “What of Wilkerson?”
    “The SOB thinks he’s smart as hell,” Hovey said. “He loosely shadowed Malone, waited in Garmisch awhile, then drove to Füssen and met with some bookstore owner. He had two helpers in a car outside. They carted off boxes.”
    “He gets under your skin, doesn’t he?”
    “He’s far more trouble than he’s worth. We need to cut him loose.”
    He’d sensed a certain distaste before. “Where’d you two cross paths?”
    “NATO headquarters. He almost cost me my captain’s bars. Luckily my commanding officer hated the ass-kissing bastard, too.”
    He had no time for petty jealousy. “Do we know what Wilkerson is doing now?”
    “Probably deciding who can help him more. Us or them.”
    When he’d learned that Stephanie Nelle had acquired the court of inquiry report on NR-1A and its intended destination, he’d immediately sent freelancers to the Zugspitze, intentionally not informing Wilkerson of their presence. His Berlin station chief thought he was the only asset on the ground and had been instructed to keep