He casually scanned the file.
Scofield's interests varied. He loved hunting, spending many a winter weekend in search of deer and wild boar. A bow was his choice of weapon, though he owned an impressive collection of high-powered rifles. Smith still carried the one he'd taken from Herbert Rowland's house, lying in the trunk, loaded, just in case. Fishing and white-water rafting were more of Scofield's passions, though this time of year opportunities for either would be limited.
He'd downloaded the conference schedule, trying to digest any aspects that might prove useful. He was troubled by the previous night's escapade. Those two had not been there by accident. Though he savored every bit of the conceit that swirled inside him-after all, confidence was everything-there was no sense being foolish.
He needed to be prepared.
Two aspects of the conference schedule caught his attention, and two ideas formed.
One defensive, the other offensive.
He hated rush jobs, but wasn't about to concede to Ramsey that he couldn't handle it.
He grabbed his cell phone and found the number in Atlanta.
Thank goodness Georgia was nearby.
MALONE, REACTING TO ISABEL'S WARNING, SAID TO HER, "I ONLY have one round left."
She spoke to Henn, who reached beneath his coat, produced a handgun, and tossed it down. Malone caught the weapon. Two spare magazines followed.
"You come prepared," he said.
"Always," Isabel said.
He pocketed the magazines.
"Pretty bold of you to trust me earlier," Werner said.
"Like I had a choice."
"Still."
Malone glanced at Christl and Dorothea. "You three take cover somewhere." He motioned beyond the altar to the apse. "Back there looks good."
He watched as they hustled off then called up to Isabel, "Could we take at least one of them alive?"
Henn was already gone.
She nodded. "It depends on them."
He heard two shots from inside the church.
"Ulrich has engaged them," she said.
He rushed through the nave, back into the vestibule, and exited into the cloister. He spotted one of the men on the far side, scurrying between the arches. Daylight waned. The temperature had noticeably dropped.
More shots.
From outside the church.
STEPHANIE EXITED I-40 ONTO A BUSY BOULEVARD AND FOUND the main entrance to Biltmore Estate. She'd actually visited here twice before, once, like now, during the Christmas season. The estate comprised thousands of acres, the centerpiece being a 175,000-square-foot French Renaissance chateau, the largest privately owned residence in America. Originally a country retreat for George Vanderbilt, built in the late 1880s, it had evolved into a swanky tourist attraction, a glowing testament to America's lost Gilded Age.
A collection of brick and pebbledash houses, many with steep gabled roofs, timbered dormers, and wide porches crowded together to her left. Brick sidewalks lined cozy, tree-lined streets. Pine boughs and Christmas ribbons draped street lamps and a zillion white lights lit the fading afternoon for the holidays.
"Biltmore Village," she said. "Where estate workers and servants once lived. Vanderbilt built them their own town."
"Like something from Dickens."
"They made it seem like an English country village. Now it's shops and cafes."
"You know a lot about this place."
"It's one of my favorite spots."
She noticed a McDonald's, its architecture consistent with the picturesque surroundings. "I need a bathroom break." She slowed and turned into the restaurant's parking lot.
"One of their milk shakes would be good," Davis said.
"You have a strange diet."
He shrugged. "Whatever fills the stomach."
She checked her watch. 11:15 AM. "A quick stop, then into the estate. The hotel is a mile or so inside the gates."
CHARLIE SMITH ORDERED HIMSELF A BIG MAC, NO SAUCE, NO onions, fries, and a large Diet Coke. One of his favorite meals, and since he weighed about 150 pounds sopping wet, weight had never been a concern. He was blessed with a hyper metabolism-that and an active lifestyle, exercise three times a week, and a healthy diet. Yeah, right. His idea of exercise was dialing for room service or carrying a take-out bag to the car. His job provided more than enough exertion for him.
He leased an apartment outside Washington, DC, but rarely stayed there. He needed to develop roots. Maybe it was time to buy a place of his own-like Bailey Mill. He'd been screwing with Ramsey's head the other day, but perhaps he could fix up that old Maryland farmhouse and live there, in the country. It'd be quaint. Like the buildings that now surrounded him. Even the McDonald's didn't look like any he'd ever seen. Shaped like a storybook house with a player piano in the dining room, marble tiles, and a shimmering waterfall.
He sat with his tray.
After he ate, he'd head toward the Biltmore Inn. He'd already reserved a room online for the next two nights. A classy place and pricey, too. But he liked the best. Deserved it, actually. And, besides, Ramsey paid expenses, so what did he care what it cost?
The schedule for the 14th Annual Ancient Mysteries Revealed Conference, also posted online, noted that Douglas Scofield would serve tomorrow evening as the keynote speaker at a dinner, included with the registration. A cocktail party would be held before the event in the hotel's lobby.
He'd heard of Biltmore Estate but never visited. Maybe he'd tour the mansion and see how the other half once lived. Get some decorating ideas. After all, he could afford quality. Who said killing didn't pay? He'd amassed nearly twenty million dollars from fees and investments. He'd also meant what he'd said to Ramsey the other day. He did not intend on doing this for the rest of his life, no matter how much he enjoyed the work.
He squirted a dab of mustard and a smear of ketchup on his Big Mac. He didn't like a lot of condiments, just enough to give it flavor. He munched on the burger and watched the people, many clearly here to visit Biltmore at Christmas and shop in the village.
The whole place seemed geared to tourists.
Which was great.
Lots of obscure faces among which to disappear.
MALONE HAD TWO PROBLEMS. FIRST, HE WAS PURSUING AN UNKNOWN gunman through a dim, frigid cloister, and second, he was relying on allies that were wholly untrustworthy.
Two things had clued him in.
First, Werner Lindauer. I knew Herr Malone was here, with a gun. Really? Since in their brief encounter Malone had not once mentioned who he was, how did Werner know? Nobody in the church had uttered his name.
And second, the gunman.
Never once had he seemed concerned that someone else was there, someone who'd shot his accomplice. Christl had indicated that she'd told her mother about Ossau. She could also have mentioned that he would come. But that wouldn't explain Werner Lindauer's presence or how he immediately knew Malone's identity. And if Christl had provided the information, that act showed a level of Oberhauser cooperation that he'd thought didn't exist.
All of which spelled trouble.
He stopped and listened to the wheezing of the wind. He stayed low, below the arches, knees aching. Across the garden, through the falling snow, he spotted no moveme
nt. Cold air burned his throat and lungs.
He shouldn't be indulging his curiosity, but he couldn't help it. Though he suspected what was happening, he needed to know.
DOROTHEA WATCHED WERNER, WHO CONFIDENTLY HELD THE GUN Malone had offered. During the past twenty-four hours she'd learned a lot about this man. Things she'd never suspected.
"I'm going out there," Christl said.
She couldn't resist. "I saw the way you looked at Malone. You care for him."
"He needs help."
"From you?"
Christl shook her head and left.
"Are you okay?" Werner asked.
"I will be when this is over. Trusting Christl, or my mother, is a big mistake. You know that."
Cold gripped her. She wrapped her arms across her chest and sought comfort within her wool coat. They'd followed Malone's advice, retreating into the apse, playing their parts. The ruinous condition of the church cast a foreboding spell. Had her grandfather actually found answers here?
Werner grasped her arm. "We can do this."
"We have no choice," she said, still not happy with the options her mother had offered.
"You can either make the best of it, or fight it to your detriment. Doesn't matter to anyone else, but it should matter a great deal to you."
She caught an underlying insecurity in his words. "The gunman was genuinely caught off guard when you tackled him."
He shrugged. "We told him to expect a surprise or two."
"That we did."
The day was sinking away. Shadows inside were lengthening, the temperature dropping.
"He obviously never believed he was going to die," Werner said.
"His mistake."
"What about Malone? Do you think he realizes?"
She hesitated before answering, recalling her reservations from the other day at the abbey, when she first met him.
"He'd better."
MALONE STAYED BENEATH THE ARCHES AND RETREATED TOWARD one of the rooms that opened off the cloister. He stood inside, amid the snow and debris, and assessed his resources. He had a gun and bullets, so why not try the same tactic that had worked for Werner? Perhaps the gunman on the opposite side of the cloister would head toward him, making his way to the church, and he could surprise him.