The nameless dead mw-4

by Paul Johnson

  I decided there was no advantage in sharing that information with her. It might give me an advantage later. ‘No. Presumably members of Rothmann’s or Apollyon’s cult.’

  We got back into the pickup and set off again. Apollyon was still showing on the monitor and we soon caught up. There was no further sign of the car, but that didn’t mean the occupants hadn’t stopped and waited for us to pass. Sara was aware of that and kept looking in the mirror. I considered asking her to cut my bonds, but knew that would be a waste of breath. I needed to gain her trust before there was any chance of that.

  In the meantime, I thought about the shooter. Had Gordy Lister been firing at me or at the Soul Collector? He had a look on his face that was very different from anything I’d seen before-determined, vicious, even enraged. I was pretty sure I hadn’t done anything to put him in that zone. Had Sara? Or was he just so pissed off at what had happened during the annual rite that he wanted rid of us both? I thought about how he’d been before the ceremony and couldn’t figure that-he wasn’t a conditioned zombie or a committed devil-worshipper. Then again, maybe he’d completely fooled me and was both.

  I didn’t think his driver was either of those, but she could have duped me, too. Or perhaps Mary Upson had been so traumatized by the time she had spent upside down on the cross with her head in a sack that she had completely flipped. Seeing her mother’s body in the coffin under the central cross would have aided that process. Then again, I had led her on when she had helped me escape from Maine and that had ended badly. I already knew the damage she could do. If she had inherited Nora Jacobsen’s tendency for extreme behavior, we were in seriously deep shit.

  ‘What is it?’ Sara asked.

  ‘Nothing. So, not Kansas City. Where do you live then? Omaha, Nebraska?’

  She shook her head, but a smile played on her lips. Maybe I could get through her defenses after all.

  Rudi Crane was on his knees in the hotel room in Washington when his cell phone rang. He ignored it and went on giving thanks to the Good Lord. Today had been a red-letter day. Both sets of meetings had ended in success. Hercules Solutions would be providing army and police training for a small but hugely wealthy Gulf oil state-the emir had himself signed the contract before lunch. The company would also be responsible for all security work for one of the world’s largest oil companies. Its CEO had flown in especially to supervise the final negotiations that afternoon. The contract would be signed in London next month. Truly, the Lord was a bountiful and benevolent God.

  The Reverend Crane also offered up thanks for the favorable terms he had managed to negotiate with an Israeli arms company. They guaranteed the supply of high-quality weaponry at a price that would not put undue strain on Hercules. In six months, the company would be better equipped than most nations’ armies, and able to play a major role in the unrest that would soon engulf the world. It had not yet been revealed whether this would be the Armageddon that Rudi Crane had been waiting for all his sentient life but, even if it wasn’t, the Second Coming of the Lord was not far off. Of course, Crane himself would be taken up to Heaven in the Rapture before the conflict started, but leaving a fully armed force to fight the Antichrist was a good legacy he could offer.

  And everything had started on a small farm in West Virginia, he reflected. It was a classic American tale of greatness from small beginnings, one that Abraham Lincoln himself would be proud of. Young Rudi’s parents had been dirt poor, his father a dedicated worker on the land, who had been forced to go down the coal mines to provide for his family. His mother was a saintly woman, who had been drawn to the Baptist faith despite her family’s devotion to Bavarian Catholicism. Between them, they ensured that Rudi got a decent education, enabling him to win a scholarship to Bible college and start his preaching career. They had also instilled in him a deep understanding of money, in their careful management of the land and the income earned from it and the mines-his mother had taken in laundry and sewn clothes to supplement that. Investing the profits from his books and TV programs had come naturally to Rudi, and soon he was spending more time on business than preaching. He did not regret that. Clearly it was the will of the Lord.

  Crane’s reflections had the clarity of real life, so painstakingly had he constructed his backstory. In fact, his father had been a drunken animal, who beat his wife and young Rudi. His death, down a dry well with a sealed cover, had never been satisfactorily explained, though the local sheriff was unlikely to reopen inquiries, considering the money he had been paid. As for his mother, she had also beaten Rudi and forced him to watch her have sex with any man who could pay. After her death in a mental asylum, her records disappeared and the Director built himself a luxurious cabin in the Allegheny Mountains.

  The preacher man looked at his cell phone. The call he’d missed was from Martin Mallinson, one of the D.C. lawyers he used. He couldn’t begin to imagine what that slick operator would be wanting of him.

  ‘He’s stopped,’ Sara said, taking her foot off the gas pedal and looking at the monitor.

  I had been half-asleep. The clock in front of me showed 2:41. ‘Where are we?’

  The vehicle came to a halt.

  ‘We just passed somewhere called Hutchense, sixty miles southwest of Dallas. There isn’t much ahead. The next town is in ten miles. Hold on, he’s moving again.’

  We watched as the marker moved westward. There were no roads or settlements showing on the monitor.

  ‘And he’s stopped again.’ Sara sat back and stretched her back.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  She screwed her eyes up. ‘Too long in the driving seat.’

  ‘I could have spelled you.’

  ‘Yeah, that would have been a great idea.’

  Despite the sarcasm, I went for broke. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy loosening these ropes?’

  She just glared at me. ‘Sure. Oh, wait, I saw what you did to my half sister.’

  And then it hit me again-Christ, Quincy. She had killed him without compunction, just as she’d killed Dave. What was I doing cozying up to her? Then I remembered Rothmann. The bastard responsible for Karen’s death and that of our son had priority. If Sara could get me near him, I’d nail him and then take my chances with her.

  Sara waited for half an hour and then drove on. ‘Let’s see what happening. Maybe Apollyon’s stopped at a motel.’

  The area didn’t seem to have many of those. Besides, I couldn’t see the assassin checking in with his captive. Then again, maybe he’d already killed Rothmann. Though I suspected he wanted to dispatch the so-called heretic slowly and in some grotesque Antichurch ritual rather than in the back of a pickup.

  There were very few houses on the road. This seemed to be a deserted part of Texas, even though it wasn’t so far from Fort Worth and Dallas. It was easy to forget how huge the state was. Over twenty million people were swallowed up by its vastness-which made finding just two potentially very challenging.

  Sara stopped by the edge of the road. There weren’t many trees around here, just open country rolling away into the darkness.

  ‘According to the monitor, the vehicle is three hundred yards to our left,’ she said, opening her door.

  I managed to hit the handle on mine and stumble out. There were no lights at all to the left, and only a dirt track leading away from the road we were on. The wind blew into my face, bringing the smell of grass cut with cow dung into my nostrils.

  ‘Maybe Apollyon’s gone to have a rest out of sight of the road,’ I suggested.

  ‘Maybe.’ Sara was checking her semiautomatic and machine-pistol. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  She gave me a tight smile. ‘You’ll come with me, all right. But I don’t trust you, Matt.’ She came quickly toward me and wrapped a handkerchief round my mouth. ‘No noise, capisce?’

  I glared at her. I was trussed up like a Christmas turkey and about as vulnerable. She knew that and pushed me ahead of her. The
words human and shield flashed up in my mind. So much for gaining her confidence.

  I stumbled down the rough track in the darkness.

  Ruts in the land were deep and well worn. Had Apollyon prepared a hideout nearby? I sincerely hoped we weren’t anywhere near where the Texas Chainsaw Massacre was filmed.

  ‘Hang on,’ Sara whispered, putting a hand on my shoulder.

  I turned and watched her look ahead. It was pitch-dark and there was no moon. I could see only a few faint stars. She nodded and I started walking again, my breath making the gag round my mouth damp. We must have gone at least a couple of hundred yards. Where had Apollyon gone?

  Then my foot hit something hard. There was a loud click and we were blinded by a spotlight. I couldn’t raise my hands, so I had to lower my head.

  ‘Don’t move!’ came a harsh male voice.

  ‘Do as he says,’ Sara whispered from behind me. ‘I’ll deal with them when they come closer.’

  ‘You at the rear! Drop your weapons!’

  ‘Screw you,’ Sara muttered.

  ‘Final warning!’

  Jesus, what was going to happen? I was sure Sara wouldn’t disarm herself.

  ‘All right,’ said the voice, ‘let him go!’

  Let him go? Who? There was a crash of metal and I heard padding paws and a slavering noise. Narrowing my eyes, I looked ahead and saw a large canine coming straight toward us.

  I did the only thing I could. I dropped my shoulder and waited for the impact.

  Twenty-Nine

  Peter Sebastian was sitting outside the interview room in the Hoover Building, a cup of cold coffee on the floor between his feet. Arthur Bimsdale had gone to find some food for them while Sir Andrew Frogget made his telephone call. The investment banker had insisted he talk to his lawyer, even though Bimsdale had faxed the slippery Martin Mallinson a selection of the juiciest photos of his client.

  There would be some very angry people when Bureau staff started knocking at their doors. They had finally found a way into the secret world behind Rothmann’s activities. Although a lot of the companies were little more than fronts, the financial crime experts would have plenty to work on.

  It should have been a triumph, though Sebastian couldn’t see it that way. Valerie Hinton hadn’t called yet, but she would, as soon as the news got out. And then the full might of the CIA would be turned on him. Not even the Director would be able to protect him from that. Why had he done it? Partly, he was sick of being at the Agency’s beck and call-it was nearly fifteen years since he’d been caught in its tentacles, and he’d had enough. But that wasn’t all. There was something about this case, about the whole vicious conspiracy centered on Heinz Rothmann, that he couldn’t stomach. Not only had the President nearly lost his life and a member of his cabinet been killed, but everything to do with the extended case was pure poison. The Hitler’s Hitman killings showed that. Rothmann’s Nazism, combined with his cynical use of the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant, was bad enough, but the conditioning program developed by his sister was the clincher-it had attracted big business, international investors and the CIA, and it had enabled him to place his people in law enforcement and the armed forces. If someone didn’t put a stop to things now, the entire structure of government would be irreparably damaged.

  That someone had to be Peter Sebastian.

  He sat on the bench with his head bowed, thinking of his kids-his wife had long since written him off. Astrid and Roy were at college and had almost flown the nest. Would they remember him? Would they be proud of what he’d done? Most likely there would be a cover-up; perhaps he would even be implicated by people who were much better at the game than he was. He would be quickly forgotten by everyone who had known him, an embarrassment, one of the bad apples. Who did he think he was kidding with this pathetic act of disobedience?

  Sebastian told himself to get a grip. It wasn’t so bad. The Director was in on what he was doing; the Director had sanctioned his actions, despite the fact that he hadn’t told him of the English knight’s arrest until after it had happened. There was still room for honorable people in the Bureau, even if his previous assistant had turned out to be one of Rothmann’s brainwashed automatons. But had he made a terminal mistake in using Matt Wells? Would the conditioning he’d undergone turn out to be deeper and more resistant than the scientists thought? If that was the case, Rothmann would reclaim him and Sebastian’s strategy to trap him would be turned on its head. Given that Wells and his bodyguard had disappeared, Sebastian was prepared for the worst.

  Arthur Bimsdale came down the corridor, carrying a tray piled high with packages of sandwiches and paper cups.

  ‘Ham without mustard on the left, sir,’ he said, bending toward his boss. ‘Your coffee’s next to it.’ He straightened up. ‘I’ll give the prisoner his.’

  Sebastian nodded, unwrapping his sandwich. The last thing he felt like doing was eating, but his stomach was an acid bath that needed something to work on. He managed half of it, while Bimsdale wolfed his down in under a minute.

  ‘Here,’ Sebastian said, handing over the remainder of his. ‘You’re obviously still growing.’

  ‘I’m excited, sir,’ Bimsdale said, with a smile. ‘We’re about to break the case.’

  They went back into the interview room. Sir Andrew Frogget hadn’t touched his sandwich, but his coffee cup was empty. He was sitting straighter than he had been and had folded his hands. Sebastian didn’t like the look of that.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the investment banker said. ‘I’ve had a change of heart. I’m afraid our conversation is at an end.’

  Then he gave a strained smile, flinched as if he’d stepped on a live cable and pitched forward onto the table.

  Sebastian felt for a pulse. There was none.

  The dog hit me like a demolition ball. I was almost knocked backward, the creature’s jaws going for my throat, but I had managed to brace myself just enough. I also managed to get my bound hands in between, in the process detaching the gag. After a few seconds’ wrangling, the dog went after what it thought was an easier target-Sara. She brought her pistol to bear, but was slammed to the ground on her back before she could fire, the weapon dropping out of her grip. She landed on top of the gun and unable to reach it. I scrambled over the dusty ground and opened my arms to get my roped wrists round the animal’s neck. I managed to exert enough pressure to pull its head away from Sara.

  ‘Heel, Caesar!’ came a commanding voice. ‘Heel!’

  The dog slipped its head out from my hamstrung grip and headed for its master. Before Sara or I could move, we were surrounded by men in olive drab fatigues and caps, carrying assault rifles that were all pointed at us.

  ‘Have you finished?’ came a harsh voice.

  I looked round and was hit on the side of the face. A heavily built man in the same uniform, but with insignia on his headgear, raised a short stick.

  ‘You want some more?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  That got me a second blow, on the other side of my face.

  ‘You learned to keep it shut now?’

  I nodded. Even without my hands tied, I’d have struggled to handle him. He was carrying a lot of weight and most of it seemed to be muscle.

  ‘How about you, bitch?’

  Sara had been grabbed by a couple of gorillas. She kept quiet, having presumably decided against having her features rearranged again.

  ‘Get them inside,’ the big man ordered.

  We were halfdragged, halfwalked toward a high fence with razor wire all over the top of it. A gate as wide as the largest truck was opened and we went through. There were more armed men around. Now that we were out of the spotlight, I made out a series of low buildings. There was no sign of Apollyon’s pickup.

  ‘Take the woman to block 3,’ the big man commanded. ‘The smart-ass is coming with me.’

  I glanced at Sara as she was led away, my eyes meeting hers for an instant. She looked strangely relieved, as if she’d reached th
e end of a long journey. She was probably just conserving her strength and planning how to escape. As I was taken to another of the buildings, it struck me that I had completed a circular journey of sorts, too-from Rothmann’s fortified camp in Maine, to the FBI facility in Ohio, to this stronghold in Texas. That realization wasn’t exactly uplifting, though I had managed to get out of the two previous places, even if the cost had been high-I had a flash of Karen holding our son, but they quickly faded from view. The question was, who was in charge of this camp? I hadn’t seen any signs or other means of identification.

  A wooden sliding door was opened and we went inside. A long corridor stretched ahead, with doors on either side. There were letters and numbers on them, but no other features. There was a musty smell, a mixture of sweat and something oily, maybe lubricant. The floor was bare concrete. Much more basic than the Maine camp, it reminded me of the army’s facility in Ohio. Was that what this was, a military installation? The insignia on the big guy’s cap didn’t look like any I’d ever seen before. There was a human figure with what looked like a bear’s jaws over its head and a snake in each hand. That made me think of something, but my memory declined to oblige.

  Another door was opened, this one on hinges, and I was pushed inside. The room was empty apart from a concrete bed on the wall. The big man and two guards followed me in, one of the latter dragging a chair. The dog called Caesar remained outside, I was glad to see.

  ‘Sit down.’ The boss man parked his ass on the chair he was handed.

  I sat on the bed and held out my hands. ‘Could you cut this rope, please?’ I said. I reckoned that asking for help was a way of acknowledging the power he exerted over me, as well as potentially saving my wrists from further abrasion.

  He thought about that, and then motioned one of the other men forward. ‘Do as he says.’ He grinned. ‘After all, he ain’t going anywhere.’

  His sidekicks laughed in a way that didn’t strike me as military. I thought of the militia Rothmann had set up, the North American National Revival, aka the North American Nazi Revival. These men weren’t wearing its insignia, but were they in a militia like it?