But he had done it. Now he had what he wanted: a personal interview with his old comrade, just the two of them, away from the prying electronic listening devices of the prison’s visitors’ room.
Hendricks followed the custodian through the maze of bars and electric gates to the cage that held the man who had been found guilty of treason and was rumored to be Hendricks’s nemesis of old, the Druid.
Collins stood at the window of his little cell, staring out over the Atlantic. The custodian rattled his keys and turned the lock. “Collins—you’ve got a visitor,” he said in a bored monotone.
Reggie Collins turned slowly. His gaunt eyes seemed to have difficulty adjusting to the dimmer light. “Who … who is it?” he asked in a submissive, uncertain voice.
So shocked was he by the man’s appearance that Hendricks couldn’t answer for a moment. During the war, Collins had been the embodiment of all that was good and brave in Her Majesty’s forces: tall, articulate, handsome. Now he was drawn and shriveled. His black hair had turned white, and his ruddy skin, gray. There was a palpable air of decay about the old British agent with whom Hendricks had once worked so closely.
“It’s me, Reggie,” he said finally. “It’s me, Halt Hendricks.”
“Hank?” the man asked, taking a step closer as the guard locked the door behind Hendricks. “My Lord, can it really be?” Collins’s face slowly contorted into a mixed expression of pain and wild joy as he reached out and took Hendricks’s hand and wrung it with emotion. “You don’t know how I’ve dreamed of this moment, Halt. You have no idea! Through this whole bloody affair, during those endless interrogation sessions, throughout the trial—even here—I kept asking to see you. And now, by Godfrey, you’re here!”
Collins’s face was locked in a brave smile, but then the smile gradually collapsed into an anguished look as he began to cry. His whole body shuddered, and Hendricks did not back away as Collins leaned against him, bawling like a child.
Hendricks patted his shoulder tenderly. “It’s okay, Reg,” he said. “Steel yourself, man. I had no idea what you were going through. They never tried to get in touch with me, or I would have come.”
Collins turned away in an effort to gain control of himself. Finally he rubbed his eyes and motioned for Hendricks to take a seat on the little cot. “I’m okay now, Hank. Bit embarrassing, that.” He sniffed and cleared his throat as he sat on the floor, his back against the concrete wall. “This has been such a bloody, rotten business. Thought it was quite the joke when the buggers came after me as a traitor.” He forced a laugh that couldn’t hide his bitterness. “Called me the bloody Druid! Can you imagine? Me?” He looked anxiously at Hendricks. “But you can tell them the truth, Hank. Only you know the real truth. You know I was never a blasted Russian agent. You know that it was only a deep cover—”
“What happened to the records at MI-5, Reggie?” Hendricks interrupted. “Certainly they should have dug them out and presented them to the Assizes, considering the severity of the charges against you.”
Collins shook his head nervously. “No records, Hank.”
“But there were records, for God’s sake—”
The old agent smacked a withered fist against his hand. “I know! But they were lost or stolen—probably the latter. At any rate, there were no records to be found.” A pitiable laugh slipped from his lips. “Rather funny, really. I was so careful to build a convincing cover in those days that it was my own cleverness which sent me here. Most of the evidence used against me was evidence I had planted during the war.” Collins cocked his head unexpectedly, as if listening to some distant sound.
“What is it, Reg? Do you hear something?”
Collins’s eyes were abruptly clouded by a foggy, faraway look. “It’s the bloody screaming, Halt,” he whispered after a moment. “The screaming. I can stand the cold water and the bad food and the roaches, but it tears at my insides when I hear those poor buggers being tortured.”
Hendricks listened carefully.
A cold thrill moved through him.
There were no screams.
There was only the hushed silence of the sea crashing onto the bluff outside.
Collins, quite obviously, had been pushed over the brink of his own endurance, pushed toward the dark chasm of insanity.
“Reggie,” Hendricks said gently. “I want you to listen to me. I’m going to get you out of here. You’re going to be all right. But first, I need to know some things—things you know more about than anyone on earth.”
“Of course, Hank,” Collins said distantly, still preoccupied with the terrors of his own mind. “What do you want to know?”
Hendricks took off his derby and hunched closer to the shrunken man. “I want you to tell me about Martin Bormann, the man who was supposed to carry Hitler’s legacy on to future generations. I remember your insisting after the war that Bormann was not dead.”
Reggie Collins’s eyes seemed to clear momentarily. “Quite right,” he said. He rubbed thoughtfully at his ears before adding, “It’s more than just speculation on my part. Bormann and his young aide had exacting plans—plans made, actually, by Hitler himself—to escape by plane. They were to leave Rechlin Airbase. The plane they were to use was a specially built Junker Three-ninety, which carried thirty thousand liters of fuel and had a cruising range of eighteen thousand kilometers. It could have taken them, quite easily, to Paraguay.”
“Or Nicaragua?”
“Of course.”
“What makes you think they got the chance to use it, Reggie?”
“It’s rather simple, Halton. When the Russians finally got to Rechlin, the Junker was gone. Someone used it. And, as you know, neither the bodies of Bormann nor his aide have been found. It was not because the bodies were not sought, either. Bormann was such a sadistic little animal, the Russians had quite a thing about finding him. But I rather think Bormann’s aide was even worse. A nasty bit of work, he was. A young rough named Fisterbaur.”
Hendricks shivered slightly. “Fisterbaur?”
“Yes. Bormann recruited him from the interrogation staff at Auschwitz.”
Now more than ever, Hendricks felt the urge to answer the unconscious summons that had called him to help his friend and employer, Jacob Hayes. He felt as if he should race immediately from Gweebarra Prison to Belfast and catch the first direct flight to Miami. If he hurried, he could possibly be landing in Grand Cayman in less than fourteen hours—only nine hours, counting the time difference. Instead, he took a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm. He said, “There’s one more thing I would like to discuss, Reggie.”
Collins’s head tilted again, as his own private terrors threatened once more to take control. But then he shook himself, forcing his attention on Hendricks. “Anything, Hank.” His smile was touchingly vulnerable. “We have no secrets from each other.”
“Yes, Reggie, that is true. And it must stay that way. Apparently, there was speculation that you were the Druid—the one Abwehr agent we were never able to find. Only two living people—you and I—could know for certain that you are not the Druid—”
“Wrong,” Collins cut in. “There are three people who know. He knows, Hank. The Druid knows. I have had plenty of time to think about why I was chosen as a scapegoat. And make no mistake about it, a scapegoat is exactly what I am. The reasons always point directly back to the man who, for so long, has been a question mark in both of our careers. Of course, any finger I might point now would be dismissed as the desperate ravings of a convicted traitor.” The man’s gaunt eyes looked deep into Hendricks’s eyes. “He knew I was a potential danger to him, and he found his way to destroy me, Halton. You should be forewarned that any interest in my case will make it necessary for him to destroy you.”
Hendricks’s jaw tightened and his voice was cold. “He hasn’t destroyed either one of us, Reg. Not yet.” He pulled out his pocket watch and checked it perfunctorily. “We have fifteen minutes left, Reggie, old horse and in those fifteen minute
s you’re going to tell me everything you know, everything you suspect about the Druid of modern days—and that includes keying me on some of the Druid ciphers you unraveled. And then, if that lovely jailer of yours is a little late, we’ll get rooting on a plan to nail that bastard. Because we are going to nail him, Reg. The two of us will have a nice cup of tea on the son of a bitch’s grave. That I promise you.”
Reggie Collins’s eyes misted as he smiled for the first time in a very long while. “Thank you, Halton,” he said softly, fighting back the tears. “Thank you so much for giving me hope.…”
twenty-three
Grand Cayman
On the long commercial flights from New York to Miami, from Miami to Owen Roberts Airport on Grand Cayman, James Hawker wrestled with the uneasy feeling that he was too late.
When the beautiful Brigitte Mildemar’s voracious sexual wanting was finally satisfied, then and only then did she remember that “some corporation in Chicago” had left a very important message for Hawker.
Hawker had immediately thrown back the covers and walked naked past the cooling corpse of the assassin to the phone.
The message was important all right. It was also confirmation that the strange foreboding Hawker had experienced was chillingly accurate.
One of Hayes’s trusted secretaries enlarged on the details provided by Callis: Jacob was, indeed, missing and feared kidnapped—or worse. Traces of blood had been found in the bathroom of his island cottage. The blood matched Hayes’s type. The Grand Cayman police force was investigating but had found nothing yet. Hayes’s last communication to corporate headquarters consisted of a manila envelope.
At Hawker’s insistence, the secretary read the contents to him. While the material could have been better understood by a business expert, Hawker deciphered enough to know that the reports contained serious and incriminating information on Fister Corporation.
After instructing the secretary to make copies of the financial data and lock the copies away in a variety of places for safekeeping, Hawker hung up and returned to the bedroom.
Brigitte had pulled a white T-shirt on that was not quite long enough to cover the smooth swell of hips and the burnished glow of pubic triangle. Her short blond hair was mussed with their lovemaking.
She was packing a suitcase, humming nervously.
Calmly Hawker walked over and began to unpack her bag.
“What … what are you doing?” she had stammered.
“You’re not going,” he said easily.
“But you promised. And after what we did—”
“I didn’t promise. And what we did was fine for both of us. But sex has nothing to do with business—something too many women conveniently refuse to understand.”
Brigitte stepped away and thrust her fists on her hips. “You’re going to leave me here with that … that … body?”
The outrage in her voice was so ripe with indignation that Hawker had to fight back a smile. “If I don’t the police will be after you for suspicion of murder. If you stay, they’ll just be after me.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” she demanded.
“It’s not supposed to make you feel better or feel worse. That’s the way it is. Period.”
For a moment, Hawker thought she was going to try to bury one of her small fists in his face. Instead, she gave a sputtering cough of frustration, then plopped down on the bed.
“It’s not ladylike to pout,” he said with a smile.
“I’m not pouting!” she yelled back. She sniffed and tugged the T-shirt down over her thighs. “I’ll never forgive you for this—I swear it.”
“I don’t remember asking for forgiveness,” said Hawker as he pulled on his clothes. He notched his belt tight, then leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek—and ducked as she took an open-handed swing at him. Hawker wagged his index finger at her. “Temper, temper, dear.” He leaned down, kissed her again (on the mouth, this time), ducked another wild roundhouse, and headed out the hall door. “I’ll see you when I get back, Brigitte, darling.”
“I’ll see you in hell first!” she yelled after him.
“Better that than another night in The Bronx,” Hawker said over his shoulder, leaving.
At Owen Roberts Airport, Hawker didn’t even bother to dicker over the price of a rental car. He selected the most dependable-looking vehicle available—a dented and well-traveled Mustang—and paid in cash.
Because of the inevitable layover in Atlanta, his only choice was the late flight into Grand Cayman. So, by the time he got his duffel bag and leased the car, it was well after midnight.
It was a balmy, warm night with moon. An oily breeze blew over the reef, across the island, carrying with it the Caribbean smells of citrus, diesel fuel, sea wrack, and jasmine.
Hawker drove north on Crewe Road, north toward Bodden Town and Jacob Hayes’s cottage.
Traffic was sparse as he sped along past late-night juke joints and the dimly lighted island homes with their clotheslines and sand yards and conch-shell borders.
At South Bay, he turned right and bounced down the private drive until it ended where the Caribbean Sea spread away toward Nicaragua, vast and silver-laced in moonlight.
Palm trees bowed over Hayes’s cottage, rustling in the sea breeze. Ghost crabs the size of rats clattered away as Hawker got out, threw his duffel bag over his shoulder, and headed for the front door.
Immediately, he stopped.
There was a light on inside. A dim light, flickering in the living-room window.
Hawker unzipped his duffel bag and took out the only weapon he dared check through commercial customs: the Randall Attack-Survival knife.
He drew the knife and peeked through the front window.
The light was made by a single candle.
A man sat cross-legged on the floor beside the candle, staring at the wall. His hands were folded in his lap, and his eyes were unblinking, as if in a trance.
The man should have been wearing a loincloth. Instead, he wore very proper gray worsted slacks, dress shirt, and vest. His jacket had been folded over the chair.
It was Hendricks.
Hawker put the knife away, tapped on the door, and then stepped inside. Hendricks got quickly to his feet and switched on one of the table lamps.
“Christ,” said Hawker, “you look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
“Nice to see you, too, James,” Hendricks said dryly. “You’ve heard about Jacob?”
“Yeah. A cop friend of mine in New York told me, then I called corporate headquarters. Jake had dug up a lot of dirt on Fister. I guess they figured he was getting too close.” Hawker put his duffel bag on the floor and went to the kitchen to find that Hendricks had already boiled water for tea. “How long have you been here, Hank?”
“About two hours. Just long enough to stop at Western Union, check with the local authorities, and come here.”
“Western Union? Why Western Union?”
“Had to send a telegram to an old friend of mine named Druid,” answered Hendricks as he put bags of Indian green tea into the two mugs.
Hawker looked at him carefully. Hendricks seemed oddly distracted, as if subdued by worry. “We’re going to find Jake,” Hawker said softly. “I promise you.”
“Are we?” said Hendricks. “The police say they have absolutely nothing to go on. And I have the very unhappy feeling that, if we don’t find him tonight, Jacob won’t live to see another day.” The butler sipped at his tea and walked to the candle he had lighted. He touched his fingers to his lips, and the flame hissed as he extinguished it. Hendricks began to say something, faltered, then pressed on. “James?”
“Yeah, Hank?”
“James, very early yesterday morning, I was awakened from a sound sleep by thoughts of Jacob. Strange thoughts. They were almost …”
“Overpowering?” Hawker inserted.
“Yes,” Hendricks said quickly. “It was almost as if—”
“As
if he were trying to communicate with you?” Hawker cut in again.
“Exactly,” Hendricks agreed, giving Hawker an odd look. “How did you know?”
“What time was it you woke up?”
“A little before seven A.M., I would imagine.”
“What time would that be in New York?”
“Oh … just before two.”
Hawker nodded emphatically. “I had the same kind of thoughts at the very same time,” he said. “I couldn’t shake them—and, believe me, in the situation I was in, it should have been easy.” Hawker motioned toward the candle. “Is that what you were doing when I came? Trying to get back in touch?”
“It’s called zazen,” Hendricks said. “Sitting meditation. Jacob gave me a little instruction, but it always struck me as rather silly. Still,” the butler added thoughtfully, “it seemed as if I was getting some very strong impressions just before you came. Very cold impressions. Bleak. Hellish.” Hendricks looked quickly at Hawker. “That’s why I said I didn’t think Jacob could hold out another night—if he’s not already dead.”
“Do you think you could find him?” Hawker asked. “Were the impressions that strong?”
Hendricks shook his head and snorted in frustration. “Think of what you’re saying, James. Do you really think we have a chance of finding a man hidden away on this island through the use of this … nonsense?”
“Mumbo jumbo,” corrected Hawker.
“It’s absolute rubbish,” agreed Hendricks.
A slow smile formed on Hawker’s lips. “The only weapon I have is a knife.”
Hendricks thought for a moment. “I flew the Trislander down. The taxi driver who brought me here was quite upset by the weight of one of the bags.”
“Weapons?” Hawker asked.
“I think Thompson submachine guns qualify as weapons.” Hendricks sniffed.
Hawker clapped him on the back. “Let’s load up and hit the trail, O Swami.”
twenty-four
For more than an hour they drove aimlessly through the dusky moonlight, scouring the island’s back roads.
Deadly in New York Page 11
