Page 39 of The Last Kingdom

DERRICK REENTERED THE CHARLES HOTEL. HE’D STAYED HERE SIMPLYbecause Prince Stefan had occupied one of the larger upper-floor suites. His room, a modest forty square meters, sat on the third floor. But it came with an impressive view of the park just beyond the hotel.

Stefan would have no idea anyone was watching him, nor would he know Derrick or his position with the United States government. From all of the intel collected on this ambitious Wittelsbach, Stefan von Bayern seemed an arrogant narcissist who thought himself far smarter than anyone around him. Apparently the complacency that came from being the second born in a former royal family bred a level of indifference that obliterated good judgment. Regardless, he’d been told that Stefan had checked out hours ago.

It was all up to Luke Daniels now.

Thankfully, few people knew much of anything aboutdas letzte königreich.

The last kingdom remained one of those mysteries from another time that survived World War II and stayed hidden thanks to a classified designation. The CIA, in its infancy, back in the late 1940s and into the 1950s, had dealt with it for a while, then abandoned all further efforts, focusing instead on overthrowing governments and assassinating anybody that stood in America’s way. The agency had been like the Wild West, doing pretty much anything to anyone, until 1961 and the disastrous Bay of Pigs, when their mission statement was altered, their charter forever changed. New laws restricted what they could and could not do. The freewheeling days ended and the march to the beat of a new drummer began.

Everyone forgot about the last kingdom.

But that did not mean it ceased to exist. Like a million other secrets, it languished within files long locked away. Derrick had tried to gain access to the American archive in Bavaria through a contact, a month back, but all of the information he’d received came heavily redacted. Further attempts had been thwarted by Langley.

So he was, in essence, flying blind here.

He took the elevator to the third floor and found his room. He was waiting on a report from Luke as to what happened at St. Michael’s. With midnight approaching, the call was actually overdue. That second boat out on the Chiemsee was still giving him concern, and he’d already dispatched two assets to find out what they could, especially what happened to its occupants.

He’d never liked the unexpected.

He worked long hours as routine, always a hundred details on his mind. The political appointees above him rarely grasped more than a fraction of what was happening, and they always seemed to focus only on whattheyregarded as important. But it all mattered. And if intelligence work were a cult requiring devotion and sacrifice, then he was one of its spiritual leaders. Normally, he worked out of a nondescript office building in Brussels in a space that was sparse, old, and unpretentious. Tonight he was in the field. On the move. Making things happen. Staying awake on a cocktail of caffeine and adrenaline.

Which he loved.

Thankfully, Malone was on board. He’d given the retiree some crap back at the convent. But truth be told, he admired professionals who knew how to get the job done. And Cotton Maloney could certainly do that. They would talk first thing in the morning, and he had some people Malone needed to meet. After that, he’d turn the man loose and hope for the best.

He stepped over to the phone and found the room service menu. He was hungry. The day was over. A new one about to begin. Luckily, the Charles offered a delicious late-night selection. He was about to place an order when his cell phone buzzed. No number appeared on the screen. Only a code. One he knew. From the deputy national security adviser.

Trinity Dorner.

He answered.

“I thought you might like to know that I’ve been appointed the next director of the National Counter-terrorism Center.”

An odd way to start a conversation, so he took the bait. “The president made a good choice.”

That meant she would be heading the national clearinghouse for intelligence on terroristic threats.

“I thought so too,” she said. “What are you doing in Germany?”

The direct question reflected her reputation for no nonsense. Trinity Dorner was a striking woman with steel blue eyes, long dark hair, little sense of humor, and a penchant for avoiding small talk. She was an accomplished listener, thinker, and watcher, not only hearing what people said but deciphering things they didn’t even know they were saying. She was an expert at political weather forecasting, practical and pragmatic, attuned to the slightest change in the breeze. Her stoicism was legendary. During briefings she’d always sat in the back of the room, out of the way, so nondescript that people who didn’t know her would ask afterward,Who was that other one in the back?So many asked the same question that the tag stuck.

The other one.TOO.

Truth be known she liked the nickname, but true to her nature she never expressed an opinion one way or the other. She shunned politics, covert ties, or anything remotely related to bias. The fact that she’d led with a compliment to herself seemed meaningful. She was sending him a message.I’m leaving. Don’t screw with me.

So he gave it to her straight. “The Chinese are here.”

Silence on the other end. He could almost hear her analytical mind processing.

“Doing what?”

“Making a deal with the Germans. And the Germans are making a deal with the Bavarians. Neither one of which is good for us.”

More silence. More processing. She’d never ask him if he was sure, knowing he would not have said so if he wasn’t.

“We’re aware of some of this,” she finally said. “The White House told the CIA to stand down sixty days ago, as other people would be handling it.”

Other people?That was news.

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