Maps of Hell mw-3

by Paul Johnston

  “Dana!” Irma Rothmann screamed. “Let her go!”

  I was fighting for breath. “Drop the gun!” I gasped. “Now!” I looked round my captive’s head.

  The older woman was still pointing the pistol toward us.

  “No, Mr. Wells,” she said, her eyes colder than a polar bear’s. “If my daughter must be hurt, so be it. The cause is more important than any single person.”

  “Mutti!” Maltravers croaked.

  “That’ll be your caring Nazi ideology, I suppose,” I said, keeping my head behind my captive’s. “Don’t you just love it, Dana?”

  “Let her go!” Fraulein Rothmann screamed. “If I hit her, the bullet will go through to you, as well.”

  “So what?” I said, with as much bravado as I could muster. “At least there’ll be one less Nazi in the world.”

  I heard a crash at the far end of the room and risked a look. The older woman’s aim was wavering. I shoved her daughter toward her, keeping a tight grip on her. We all three clattered to the floor and I scrabbled for the gun that the impact had driven out of Irma Rothmann’s hand. I got hold of it just as a large pair of men’s shoes appeared in front of me.

  “Here,” Clem Simmons said, extending the hand that wasn’t holding his service weapon-its muzzle was directed at Dana Maltravers.

  I took the hand and was jerked to my feet. I turned to the two women who were sprawled in front of us.

  Clem had taken quite a beating and his jacket was torn. He wiped blood from his damaged lips. “This is a surprise, Special Agent Maltravers,” he said. He glanced at the older woman. “Who’s this?”

  “Her mother. Irma Rothmann, Larry Thomson’s twin sister.” That made me think. “Where’s your brother?” I asked her.

  She didn’t respond. She was too busy cradling her daughter’s head and speaking to her in German. No doubt she was trying to reassure her that she wouldn’t really have sacrificed her for the cause. It didn’t look like Dana Maltravers was buying it.

  “We’d better get out of here, Matt,” Clem said, looking over his shoulder. “I took out three of the fuckers, got them restrained, but there may be more of them around.”

  I nodded. We secured the women’s wrists behind their backs with plastic ties and pushed them toward the door. “Did you call for backup?”

  He shook his head. “We need to get this shit in order before I get my people involved.”

  I nodded. That was the way I wanted it, but we were taking a chance.

  In the hall by the exit, there was a small table covered with keys and cards.

  “Which one operates the executive elevator?” I asked.

  Irma Rothmann looked away, so I jammed the muzzle of Dana Maltravers’s gun into her belly.

  “If you prefer, I can drop your daughter down the stairwell,” I said savagely, remembering what had been done to Joe Greenbaum.

  The woman swallowed and then pointed to a yellow card. I inserted it and the elevator doors opened. We got in and moved downward rapidly. As we reached the entrance-hall level, Clem muscled Fraulein Rothmann in front of him. I did the same with Dana Maltravers. When the doors opened, we moved out cautiously. To my relief, there was nobody around.

  “The alarm system suffered a catastrophic failure,” Clem said.

  “Something to do with that screwdriver you had in your pocket?” I asked.

  “Something to do with the rounds I had in my service weapon. Let’s hit the sidewalk.”

  We did so, then walked up the street to the car. A passing man in a sharp suit peered at us, but was satisfied by a flash of Clem’s badge. Irma Rothmann started talking in a loud voice, but stopped when the detective squeezed her forearm hard. We made it to the car. I got in the back between the two women.

  We headed for Vers and the twins. I could tell that Clem was tempted to floor the gas pedal, but he restrained himself. Gwen and Randy had been calm enough, but what would happen when they were confronted with the woman they called the professor, their Fuhrer’s ice-veined twin sister?

  Peter Sebastian’s eyes were fixed on the TV screen in the corner of his office. One of his team had called from home to alert him. There were live pictures of Detective Chief Superintendent Karen Oaten of the London Metropolitan Police climbing out of a Bureau helicopter at Reagan airport, followed by Levon Creamer of Financial Crime. The news channel was making much of the fact that the woman was unharmed from her kidnap ordeal, as well as stressing that the FBI had not yet given any details of how it had ended.

  Sebastian knew Creamer, but he’d never worked with him. The bastard should at least have let him know what was going on. Then again, it had never been established that the British policewoman’s disappearance was linked to that of the suspect Matt Wells. Sebastian would have to talk to Creamer, but he had the feeling that now was not the time. The sight of the deputy director meeting Ms. Oaten and escorting her to a waiting car reinforced that suspicion. He would have to wait till morning.

  In the meantime, he’d decided to call Dana Maltravers and make his peace with her. She deserved to know about the Document Analysis Unit’s ideas, too. But, to his great surprise, she didn’t answer her cell phone, which rang until the messaging service cut in. It wasn’t the first time that had happened recently.

  Peter Sebastian wished he hadn’t behaved so offensively to his assistant.

  Forty-One

  I tried to get the women to talk on the drive to the safe house, but Maltravers was semiconscious, or was pretending to be, while Irma Rothmann just stared at me vacantly. I gave up and spoke to Clem instead.

  “Call Vers,” I said. “Check he’s okay.”

  The detective nodded and opened his phone. “Yo, man, you alive?” There was a long silence, which didn’t do much for my nerves, then Clem laughed. “Keep some for us. Be there in ten.” He looked at me in the rearview mirror. “The dog! He got the twins to cook dinner. Chili.”

  “My favorite,” I said, noticing that Fraulein Rothmann suddenly looked curious. “Yours, too?”

  She snorted disdainfully.

  Then it clicked. “Ah, it’s the twins you’re interested in. They remember you.

  “By the way, what are you a professor of?”

  Irma Rothmann looked reluctant to answer. “Neuroscience,” she finally said.

  “Have you by any chance been working on guinea pigs in the depths of Maine?”

  This time she kept quiet. I would be following that angle up later.

  When we got to the house, I asked Clem to take Dana Maltravers in first and see if the twins knew her. I waited in the car for his call.

  “Nope,” he said, after a couple of minutes. “No obvious signs of recognition.”

  “Okay, I’m bringing in the Queen Bee.” I opened the car door and pulled Irma Rothmann out.

  “What is this ridiculous game you are playing, Wells?” she demanded, as I led her toward the house.

  I wanted to mess with her-maybe the twins would lose their respect if they saw her in a distressed state.

  “You have no idea how much shit you’re in,” I said, my lips close to her ear. “If I find out you had anything to do with Joe Greenbaum’s death, I’m going to strangle you with my bare hands.”

  Her face went even paler than it normally was, but she held her nerve. “Greenbaum?” she said, twisting her lips. “Is that a Jew name?”

  “It’s a German name.” The woman was trying to rile me, too. I smiled. “Rothmann. That sounds quite Jewish, too.”

  She looked away. I reckoned I’d won that round, and pressed the bell. Versace opened the door.

  “So this is what a Nazi looks like,” he said, in a low voice. “Welcome to hell.”

  I frowned at him.

  “Sorry, Field Goal,” he said, stepping back. “My best friend at high school was a Jewboy. His grandparents were gassed by pieces of shit like her.”

  I pushed the women in after him, wondering in how many states Jewboy was an acceptable term.

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nbsp; Pinker led us into the dining room. The table was laid with plates and cutlery and there were large bowls of chili, rice and salad. The smell was enticing, but the reaction of the twins to Irma Rothmann made me forget the food immediately. In the seconds before they saw her, they were sitting quietly at the far end of the table. The instant they took in the tall woman, their backs straightened and their expressions became ultraserious.

  “No introductions necessary,” Clem said.

  I was studying Gwen and Randy. They still hadn’t spoken, but I had the impression some sort of silent communication was under way. I turned to Irma Rothmann. Her expression was pinched, her eyes flicking from one twin to the other.

  “You can talk to them, if you like,” I said.

  For a few moments, she didn’t respond. Then she moved her bound hands upward slowly and said, “We are not in camp now.”

  Gwen and Randy relaxed slightly, then looked at Dana Maltravers.

  “Who’s she?” Randy asked.

  Fraulein Rothmann glanced at me. “She is my daughter.”

  The twins stiffened again. It struck me that they gave no sign of fear, for all the talk of the horrors they had experienced at the camp.

  “Right,” I said, “it’s time for a question-and-answer session. Where can I take contestant number one?”

  “Upstairs,” Versace said. “Use any of the bedrooms, but don’t you dare make a mess.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Clem.

  “Better not. Let’s not leave your partner alone.” There was a strange aura about the twins and the professor.

  Clem nodded, though it didn’t look like he was tuning into the vibes I was getting. I took Irma Rothmann upstairs and pushed her into the nearest bedroom.

  “Can you unfasten my hands, please?” she asked.

  “No chance.” I had Dana Maltravers’s gun, but I’d seen the emptiness in her mother’s eyes at Woodbridge Holdings and I wasn’t going to give her the slightest opportunity. I sat her down on the bed.

  “I’m not going to talk,” she said, before I opened my mouth.

  “So you say.” I took the pistol from my belt and laid it on the bed next to her.

  She gave a contemptuous laugh. “You don’t frighten me. You are very far out of your depth, Matt Wells.”

  I raised my shoulders. “All right. I’ll go and get Dana.”

  She frowned. “What for?”

  “Do you think the Gestapo had a monopoly on extreme methods of torture?” I was thinking of Joe again, and of Karen. I told myself again that she hadn’t been the woman I’d seen sacrificed; I willed myself to believe that was the case.

  “She’s hurt,” Fraulein Rothmann said, more animated now. “You can’t-”

  She broke off when I touched my groin. “Good-looking woman, your daughter,” I said, licking my lips ostentatiously. “I’m looking forward to giving her everything I’ve got.” I was not proud of this strategy.

  “You’re disgusting,” Fraulein Rothmann said, spittle flying from her lips. “There are policemen downstairs. You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try me. Have you see any warrants? This is hardly an official operation.” I got up and headed for the door.

  “Stop!” she said, stretching out her bound hands. “Please! Leave Dana alone!”

  “All right,” I said, going back to the bed. “But I won’t hesitate if I think you’re lying.”

  She kept her eyes off me as I sat down next to her and picked up the gun.

  “Where’s Karen Oaten?” I asked, my heart suddenly thundering. “I hope for your sake she’s still alive.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you do know who I’m talking about.”

  “Of course.”

  “I suppose you just saw the news reports of her disappearance.”

  Her eyes burned into mine. “Don’t be ridiculous. She was in the camp, the same as you. I don’t know where she is now.”

  I rocked back at the unexpected admission.

  “Why was she there?”

  “For the same reason you were. To learn the error of her ways.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” I demanded-I wanted her to spell out what she and her brother were doing.

  Irma Rothmann sighed. “She was getting too close to an associate of Woodbridge Holdings.”

  “Gavin Burdett.”

  “If you know, why do you waste time asking?”

  I let that go. “Has something been done to Karen’s memory?”

  “Oh, I think so,” she said, with a tight smile. “Don’t you?”

  I forced myself to move on. “The occult murders. Who’s the killer?”

  “What makes you imagine I know?”

  It was my turn to sigh. “We know of Woodbridge Holdings’s links to the North American Nazi Revival and the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant. You decided to make examples of occult people you didn’t approve of, didn’t you?”

  She gave a harsh laugh. “Oh, come now.”

  “Loki was an embarrassment to your puritanical movement. He made Nazism ridiculous.”

  She pursed her lips.

  “And Monsieur Hexie was black, Professor Singer was a Jew and Crystal Vileda was a Hispanic. Untermenschen, all of them.”

  “I cannot argue with that characterization.”

  “So who killed them?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said, looking away.

  She wasn’t sure, but she obviously had suspicions. The murderer had to have some relation to the Rothmann twins and their activities-the pairs of murder weapons, the choice of victims, the way I’d been framed as soon as I left the camp, Woodbridge Holdings’s timber and newspaper businesses-everything was connected.

  Then I thought of the diagrams that had been attached to the victims: squares and rectangles in four different arrays-what did they mean? Lights flashed before me and I heard an echo of martial music; something I’d seen when I was under the machine in the camp, something that had started as shots of fences and guard towers, a gate with German words above it, rows and rows of huts…and then was mapped from above, into a composite picture…a familiar map of hell:

  “Auschwitz,” I said, my voice faint.

  A smile spread across the woman’s thin lips. “Ah, the maps,” she said slowly. “You understand them… Bravo.”

  I kept silent, my mind in a frenzy. Why had the killer deliberately left clues pointing to a Nazi link?

  “You aren’t in complete control of the killer, are you?” I said at last.

  “You’re not as clever as you think, Matt Wells. You have overlooked something much more important.”

  The tone of her voice warned me that I was in danger, but I didn’t know how to react.

  Before I could do anything, she screamed, “Barbarossa! The policemen! Barbarossa!”

  She said the words twice before I got a hand over her mouth. As I restrained her, I felt a strange mix of emotions-shock at the virulence of her screams, but also a pressure that was being brought to bear on me and an urge, frightening in its intensity, to comply with some immutable authority.

  Then the rational part of my mind kicked in. Barbarossa: it was the code name for the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union-the greatest act of aggression in human history. I realized that it was a trigger and pushed myself away from Irma Rothmann. As I crashed down the stairs, images cascaded before me-twin weapons puncturing flesh and organs; twin weapons, held by the hands of twin murderers; twins from a farm on Iowa, whose father had died trying to bring them home; twins who had now been ordered to attack.

  Gavin Burdett was sitting in front of the TV in a house on the outskirts of Baltimore, his trousers and boxers round his ankles. Despite the pair of muscle-bound guards downstairs and the open door, he had been zapping between porn channels. There was a bevy of women pretending to be lesbians that almost got him going, but then he had found a spoof horror movie that featured a zombie orgy. It was one of the best climaxes he’d had in months.


  After he cleaned himself up, he surfed the normal channels. A cold stiletto of fear had entered his gut when he saw Karen Oaten getting out of a helicopter. What was the bitch doing free? Larry had promised him she’d never be seen again.

  Burdett got up, stretched for his cell phone and was brought down by the clothes round his ankles. He finally reached the device and called Thomson’s private number.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” he screamed. “Oaten’s free.”

  “Of course she is.”

  “But…but you told me she was finished. What about the case against me?”

  “Oh, Gavin, how can you be so selfish?”

  “What do you mean? If I go down, so do you.”

  Larry Thomson laughed. “That’s not exactly true, you know,” he said smoothly. “There are other eventualities.”

  The connection was broken.

  Gavin Burdett threw the phone down and caught sight of the men in the doorway. The one in front was carrying a length of rope with a noose at one end.

  The last thing the investment banker thought of was the tarot card depicting the hanged man. He knew more than he should have of the occult world, and now he was paying the price. The hanged man meant relinquishing control, different priorities and readjustment. But, as he was only too well aware, it also pointed to a necessary sacrifice.

  By the time I got to the dining-room door, the twins had already struck. Clem and Versace were both motionless on the floor; a table knife protruded from Pinker’s bloody chest. Nearer to me, Gwen was sawing frantically at the plastic ties on Dana Maltravers’s wrists and Randy was turning my way with Clem’s pistol. I had already racked the slide on the FBI woman’s weapon and I got a shot off before he did. Randy took it in the upper abdomen and crashed backward into the empty fireplace.