GARMISCH, 8:30 PM.

DOROTHEA WAS IN A QUANDARY. HER HUSBAND APPARENTLY KNEW all about Sterling Wilkerson, which surprised her. But he also knew of the quest with Christl, and that concerned her-along with the fact that Werner was apparently holding Wilkerson prisoner. all about Sterling Wilkerson, which surprised her. But he also knew of the quest with Christl, and that concerned her-along with the fact that Werner was apparently holding Wilkerson prisoner.

What in the world was happening?

They'd boarded a 6:40 PM PM train out of Munich and headed south to Garmisch. During the eighty-minute trip Werner had said nothing, merely sat and calmly read a Munich newspaper. She'd always found it irritating how he devoured every word, even reading the obituaries and advertis.e.m.e.nts, commenting here and there on items that struck his interest. She'd wanted to know what he meant by train out of Munich and headed south to Garmisch. During the eighty-minute trip Werner had said nothing, merely sat and calmly read a Munich newspaper. She'd always found it irritating how he devoured every word, even reading the obituaries and advertis.e.m.e.nts, commenting here and there on items that struck his interest. She'd wanted to know what he meant by going to see their son going to see their son but decided not to ask. For the first time in twenty-three years this man had shown a backbone, so she chose to keep quiet and see where things led. but decided not to ask. For the first time in twenty-three years this man had shown a backbone, so she chose to keep quiet and see where things led.

They were now driving north on a darkened highway away from Garmisch, Ettal Monastery, and Reichshoffen. A car had been waiting outside the train station with the keys under the front mat. She now realized where they were headed, a location she'd avoided for the past three years.

She decided to give him no satisfaction. "Actually, Werner, I don't think about you at all."

"I'm not stupid, Dorothea," Werner finally said. "You think I am, but I'm not."

He ignored her jab and kept driving through the cold. Thankfully, no snow was falling. Traveling this road brought back memories she'd fought hard to erase. From five years ago. When Georg's car careened off an unrailed highway in the Tyrolean Alps. He'd been there skiing and had called just before the accident to tell her that he'd be staying at the same inn he always frequented. They'd chatted for a few minutes-light, brief, and casual, mother and son, the kind of idle chitchat that occurred all the time.

But it was the last time she ever spoke to him.

The next time she saw her only child he was laid in a casket, dressed in a gray suit, ready for burial.

The Oberhauser family plot sat beside an ancient Bavarian church, a few kilometers west of Reichshoffen. After the funeral, the family had endowed a chapel there in Georg's name, and for the first two years she'd gone regularly and lit a candle.

But for the past three years she'd stayed away.

Ahead, she spotted the church, its stained-gla.s.s windows faintly lit. Werner parked out front.

"Why do we have to be here?" she asked.

"Believe me, if it wasn't important we wouldn't be."

He stepped out into the night. She followed him into the church. No one was inside, but the iron gate to Georg's chapel hung open.

"You haven't been in a while," he said.

"That's my business."

"I've come quite often."

That didn't surprise her.

She approached the gate. A marble priedieu stood before a small altar. Above, St. George, perched atop a silvery horse, was carved into the stone. She rarely prayed and wondered if she was even a believer. Her father had been a devout atheist, her mother a nonpracticing Catholic. If there was a G.o.d, she felt nothing but anger toward him for stripping her of the only person she'd ever loved unconditionally.

"I've had enough of this, Werner. What do you want? This is Georg's grave. He deserves our respect. This is not the place to air our differences."

"And do you respect him him by disrespecting me?" by disrespecting me?"

"I don't concern myself with you, Werner. You have your life and I have mine."

"It's over, Dorothea."

"I agree. Our marriage has been over a long time."

"That's not what I meant. No more men. I'm your husband and you are my wife."

She laughed. "You have to be joking."

"Actually, I'm quite serious."

"And what has suddenly evolved you into a man?"

He retreated to the wall. "At some point the living must let go of the dead. I've come to that point."

"You brought me here to tell me that?"

Their relations.h.i.+p had started through their parents. Not an arranged marriage in the formal sense, but nonetheless planned. Thankfully, an attraction blossomed and their early years had been happy. The birth of Georg brought them both great joy. His childhood and teenage years had likewise been wonderful. But his death created irreconcilable differences. There seemed a need to a.s.sign blame, and they each directed their frustrations at the other.

"I brought you here because I had to," he said.

"I haven't come to the point you apparently have."

"It's a shame," he said, appearing not to have heard her. "He would have been a great man."

She agreed.

"The boy had dreams, ambitions, and we could have fueled his every desire. He would have been the best of us both." He turned and faced her. "I wonder what he'd think of us now?"

The question struck her odd. "What do you mean?"

"Neither of us has treated the other kindly."

She needed to know, "Werner, what are you doing?"

"Perhaps he's listening and wants to know your thoughts."

She resented his pressing. "My son would have approved of whatever I did."

"Would he? Would he have approved of what you did yesterday? You killed two people."

"And how do you know that?"

"Ulrich Henn cleaned up your mess."

She was confused and concerned, but she was not going to discuss the issue here, in this sacred place. She stepped toward the gate, but he blocked the way and said, "You cannot flee this time."

A wave of uneasiness swept through her. She hated him for violating Georg's sanctuary. "Move."

"Do you have any idea what you are doing?"

"Go to h.e.l.l, Werner."

"You haven't a clue about reality."

His expression was not one of a man angry or afraid, so she was curious. "Do you want me to lose to Christl?"

His expression softened. "I wasn't aware it was a contest. I thought it more a challenge. But that's why I'm here-to help you."

She needed to know what he knew and how, but could only bring herself to say, "A dead child does not make a marriage." Her gaze bore into his. "I don't need your help. Not anymore."

"You're wrong."

"I want to leave," she said. "Will you let me pa.s.s?"

Her husband remained frozen and, for an instant, she was actually afraid. Werner had always clung to emotions like a drowning man to a life preserver. Good at starting fights, terrible at finis.h.i.+ng them. So when he retreated from the doorway she wasn't surprised.

She stepped past.

"There's something you need to see," he said.

She stopped, turned, and saw something else she'd not seen in this man for a long time. Confidence. Fear again swept through her.

He left the church and walked back to the car. She followed. He found a key and opened the trunk. Inside, a weak light revealed the contorted, dead face of Sterling Wilkerson, a b.l.o.o.d.y hole in the center of his forehead.

She gasped.

"This is quite serious, Dorothea."

"Why?" she asked. "Why did you do that?"

He shrugged. "You were using him, as he was using you. Here's the point. He's dead. I'm not."

FORTY.

WAs.h.i.+NGTON, DC.

2:40 PM.

RAMSEY WAS USHERED INTO THE LIVING ROOM OF A ADMIRAL R RAYMOND Dyals Jr., four stars, retired, US Navy. The ninety-four-year-old Missourian had served in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam, then retired in the early 1980s. In 1971, when NR-1A was lost, Dyals had been chief of naval operations, the man who'd signed the cla.s.sified order not to launch any search and rescue for the missing sub. Ramsey had then been a lieutenant, the one chosen by Dyals for the mission, afterward personally briefing the admiral about Dyals Jr., four stars, retired, US Navy. The ninety-four-year-old Missourian had served in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam, then retired in the early 1980s. In 1971, when NR-1A was lost, Dyals had been chief of naval operations, the man who'd signed the cla.s.sified order not to launch any search and rescue for the missing sub. Ramsey had then been a lieutenant, the one chosen by Dyals for the mission, afterward personally briefing the admiral about Holden Holden's covert Antarctica visit. He'd then been quickly promoted to commander and a.s.signed to Dyals' personal staff. From there, the moves upward had been fast and easy.

He owed this old man everything.

And he knew Dyals still carried clout.

He was the oldest living flag officer. Presidents consulted him, the current one no exception. His judgment was considered sound and meaningful. The press afforded him great courtesy, and senators routinely made pilgrimages to the room into which Ramsey now walked, before a raging fire, a wool blanket spread across the old man's spindly legs, a bushy cat nestled in Dyals' lap. He'd even acquired a label-Winterhawk-which Ramsey knew the man relished.

Crinkly eyes flashed as Dyals spotted him entering. "I always like it when you come by."

Ramsey stood respectfully before his mentor until he was invited to sit.

"I thought I might hear from you," Dyals said. "I heard this morning about Sylvian. He served on my staff once. An okay aide, but too rigid. He seems to have done all right, though. Nothing but glowing reports all day on his life."

Ramsey decided to come to the point. "I want his job."

The admiral's melancholy pupils lit with approval. "Member, Joint Chiefs of Staff. I never made it that far."

"You could have."

The old man shook his head. "Reagan and I didn't get along. He had his favorites, or at least his aides had their favorites, and I wasn't on that list. Besides, it was time for me to leave."

"What about you and Daniels? Are you on his favorites list?"

He caught something hard and unbending in Dyals' expression.

"Langford," Dyals said, "you know that the president is no friend of ours. He's been hard on the military. Budgets have been slashed, programs curtailed. He doesn't even think we need the Joint Chiefs."

"He's wrong."

"Maybe. But he's the president, and he's popular. Like Reagan was, just with a different philosophy."

"Surely there are military officers he respects. Men you know. Their support of my candidacy could make the difference."

Dyals lightly stroked the cat. "Many of them would want the job for themselves."

He said nothing.

"Don't you find this whole business unsavory?" Dyals asked. "Begging for favors. Relying on wh.o.r.e politicians for a career. It's one reason I opted out."

"It's the way of our world. We don't make the rules, we just play by the ones that exist."

He knew that many flag officers and a good number of those "wh.o.r.e politicians" could thank Ray Dyals for their jobs. Winterhawk had lots of friends, and knew how to use them.

"I've never forgotten what you did," Dyals quietly muttered. "I often think about NR-1A. Those men. Tell me, again, Langford, what was it like?"

A haunting bluish glow seeped through the surface ice, its color gradually deepening with depth, finally evolving into an indigo blackness. Ramsey wore a bulky navy dry suit with tight seals and double layers, nothing exposed except a tiny strip of skin around his lips that had burned when he'd first entered the water but was now numb. Heavy gloves made his hands seem useless. Thankfully, the water dissipated all weight, and floating in the vastness, clear as air, he felt as if he were flying rather than swimming.

The transponder signal Herbert Rowland had detected led them across the snow to a narrow inlet where freezing ocean licked icy sh.o.r.e, a place where seals and birds had congregated for summer. The signal's strength compelled a firsthand inspection. So he'd suited up, Sayers and Rowland helping him don his gear. His orders were clear. Only he went into the water.

He checked his depth. Forty feet.

Impossible to know how far down to the bottom but he was hoping he could at least catch sight of something, enough to confirm the sub's fate. Rowland had told him that the source lay farther inland, toward the mountains that rose from the sh.o.r.eline.

He kicked through the water.