The Charlemagne Pursuit by Steve Berry Page A

a loose eye on Malone and report back. “Did Wilkerson call in?”
    Hovey shook his head. “Not a word.”
    His intercom buzzed and he listened as his secretary told him that the White House was on the line. He dismissed Hovey and lifted the phone.
    “We have a problem,” Diane McCoy said.
    “How do we have a problem?”
    “Edwin Davis is loose.”
    “The president can’t rein him in?”
    “Not if he doesn’t want to.”
    “You sense that?”
    “I managed to get Daniels to talk to him, but all he did was listen to some rant about Antarctica, then said ‘have a nice day’ and hung up.”
    He asked for details and she explained what had happened. Then he asked, “Our inquiry about Zachary Alexander’s file meant nothing to the president?”
    “Apparently not.”
    “Perhaps we need to increase the pressure.” Which was precisely why he’d dispatched Charlie Smith.
    “Davis has hitched his wagon to Stephanie Nelle.”
    “She’s a lightweight.”
    The Magellan Billet liked to think it was a player in international espionage. No way. Twelve friggin’ lawyers? Get real. None of them was worth a damn. Cotton Malone? He’d been different. But he was retired, concerned only with his father. Actually, right now he should be pissed off, and nothing clouded judgment better than anger.
    “Nelle won’t be a factor.”
    “Davis went straight to Atlanta. He’s not impulsive.”
    Granted, but still, “He doesn’t know the game, the rules, or the stakes.”
    “You realize he’s probably headed for Zachary Alexander?”
    “Anything else?”
    “Don’t screw this up.”
    She may have been the national security adviser, but he was no underling to be ordered about. “I’ll try not to.”
    “This is my ass, too. Don’t forget that. You have a good day, Admiral.”
    And she hung up.
    This was going to be dicey. How many balloons could he hold underwater at one time? He checked his watch.
    At least one of those balloons should pop shortly.
    He glanced to his desk at yesterday’s New York Times and a story in the national section, concerning Admiral David Sylvian, a four-star and vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Thirty-seven years of military service. Fifty-nine years old. Currently hospitalized after a motorcycle accident a week ago thanks to black ice on a Virginia highway. He was expected to recover, but his condition was listed as serious. The White House was quoted as wishing the admiral well. Sylvian was a champion of eliminating waste and had totally rewritten Pentagon budgeting and procurement procedures. A submariner. Well liked. Respected.
    An obstacle.
    Ramsey had not known when his moment would come, but now that it had, he was ready. Over the past week, everything had dropped into place. Charlie Smith would handle things here.
    Time now for Europe.
    He reached for the phone and dialed an international number.
    The other line was answered after the fourth ring. He asked, “How’s the weather there?”
    “Cloudy, cold, and miserable.”
    The proper response. He was talking to right person. “Those Christmas parcels I ordered, I’d like them carefully wrapped and delivered.”
    “Overnighted or regular postal?”
    “Overnighted. The holidays are fast approaching.”
    “We can make that happen within the hour.”
    “Wonderful.”
    He hung up.
    Sterling Wilkerson and Cotton Malone would soon be dead.



 
    SIXTEEN
    WHITE OAK, VIRGINIA
5:15 PM
     
    C HARLIE S MITH GLANCED AT THE TINY FLUORESCENT HANDS ON his collector’s Indiana Jones watch, then stared out the windshield of the parked Hyundai. He’d be glad when spring returned and the time changed. He had some sort of psychological reaction to winter. It had started when he was a teenager, but worsened when he lived in Europe. He’d seen a story about the condition on Inside Edition. Long nights, little sun, frigid temperatures.
    Depressing as hell.
    The hospital’s main entrance loomed a hundred feet away. The gray-stuccoed