I gave Gavin Burdett some time to settle in. A minute seemed long enough. Then I went up to the door and gave the bell a long push. There was a security camera above the top left corner. I made sure the safety helmet covered the upper part of my face. It was possible Burdett knew what I looked like—my photo appeared at the head of my newspaper column every Thursday.
The door was opened on the chain.
“You gotta problem with your icebox,” I said, laying on an American accent.
“What?”
“Your icebox,” I repeated, sounding as irritated as possible to put him on the back foot. “Excuse me, could we move this along? I got five more customers waiting.”
“Oh, very well.”
I heard the chain being removed. As soon as the door opened, I brushed past him. By the time he’d closed it again, I had the muzzle of the Glock against the back of his head.
“If that feels like a semiautomatic pistol,” I said softly, “it’s because it is one.” I glanced around. There seemed to be no one else in the vicinity.
Burdett was swaying slightly, but was otherwise motionless.
“Right, then, Gavin,” I said, dispensing with the accent, “let’s be having you.”
I grabbed him under the arm and threw him across the black-and-white tiled floor of the elegant hallway. He cannoned into the wall, shock on his face.
“You…you know my name,” he said, kicking his legs as he tried to get up.
“Oh, yes. Don’t you recognize me?” I took off my hat and smiled, but kept the gun on him.
“Wells,” he said, clearly puzzled. “Matt Wells. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He sounded like the archetypal Brit abroad, appalled at the way he was being treated—except I was a Brit, too, and he hadn’t seen anything yet.
“Empty your pockets,” I said.
“You’re joking, aren’t you?”
I went over and kicked him on the knee.
His face twisted in agony. “Bastard! What was that for?”
“Your pockets,” I repeated, glaring at him. It wasn’t just that he was an arrogant piece of shit—I was sure he knew things about Karen.
Keeping one hand on his knee, he started pulling things from his jacket and trousers. I took his BlackBerry to examine later and glanced through the rest—keys, small change, wallet with several platinum cards, a gold fountain pen and so on. Changing hands, he emptied the remaining pockets—cigarettes, an expensive-looking lighter, chewing gum and an open packet of condoms. I remembered from the files that Burdett was married. Unless his wife was hiding upstairs, I had the feeling he was once again planning on sampling what D.C. had to offer in the underage flesh department.
“Up,” I ordered, then pushed him roughly into a sitting room full of antique furniture. Whoever owned the place wasn’t short of money or taste. There was an escritoire in the far corner with a wooden chair in front of it. I glanced at the windows. White net curtains obscured us from prying eyes. The main curtains, of an excessive floral design, were tied back with golden ropes. I wrenched the latter free and used them to tie my captive to the chair, then flipped him onto his back, making sure the telephone was well out of his range.
“Don’t bother shouting. You’ll no doubt have noticed that the windows are double glazed.”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve stayed here,” Gavin Burdett said contemptuously.
“Congratulations. I’m going for a look around. If I hear even a squeak out of you, I’ll take my boot to your other knee.”
He stared at me with barely contained anger and then nodded curtly.
I checked the other rooms on the ground floor. There was a superbly appointed kitchen, with a heavy door that I guessed led to the backyard. There was also a dining room that would have done an English stately home proud. Upstairs there were three bedrooms, furnished in degrees of opulence that ranged from regal to imperial, each with its own bathroom. I checked the wardrobes and cupboards: no one.
Back downstairs, Burdett was coming nicely to the boil.
“Look here, Wells. You can’t just assault me and tie me up like this.”
“Is that right?” I asked, stepping closer to his undamaged knee. That shut him up. I looked at the painting above the fireplace. I reckoned it could have been a genuine Corot, but my memory was having a blank about nineteenth-century art. It was doing okay on Burdett, though.
“Is this your place?”
“None of your business,” he replied, then watched my foot draw back from his knee. “No, it isn’t. Associates of mine let me use it when I’m in town.”
“Very decent of them,” I said, wondering how close these associates were. Close enough to be listening to our conversation? I hadn’t noticed any microphones, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. It was time to hurry things up.
“Where is she?” I swung the muzzle of the Glock round so it was trained on the banker’s face.
“Where is who?”
If he’d managed to keep his eyes on me when he spoke, I might have considered believing he was ignorant. As it was, he’d condemned himself as a poor liar—hard to believe for someone who was in international finance.
I kicked his good knee. That produced a gratifyingly high-pitched yelp.
“You know who I’m talking about, Burdett,” I said, pressing the muzzle of the Glock into his temple. “Stop pissing about. You also know what happened to me, don’t you?”
He tried to twitch his head to the side, but that was even less convincing.
“You piece of shit,” I hissed. “Karen was getting close to you and your criminal friends, so you had her grabbed. Me, too, when I wouldn’t let the dust settle. Where is she?”
“I…I don’t…” Gavin Burdett broke off when I raised my foot over his groin. “I…they said—”
The sound of the key in the front door was almost inaudible. Curiously, despite thousands of hours listening to loud music, my hearing was still acute. I went out to the hall at speed and saw the door open slightly. I lowered my shoulder and charged into it, then slid on the heavy-duty chain. I’d made a mistake by omitting to do that earlier, but this was no time to court-martial myself.
“What the fuck…” came a deep voice from outside. “Hey, Mr. Burdett, you okay?”
I headed for the kitchen and unbolted the back door. Ahead was a stretch of paving stones surrounded by low bushes; beyond that was the wall I’d seen from the other side. I looked over my shoulder and saw a pair of bolt-cutters gripping the chain. Burdett’s friends had certainly come fully equipped.
I sprinted down the yard and hit the wall. It must have been eight-feet high. I managed to get the toe of my boot into a gap in the mortar and drive myself up until my hands reached the top of the wall. Mistake. What I hadn’t noticed from outside was a single strand of barbed wire alongside the touch pads of the alarm system. A loud honking started from the house. I gritted my teeth and hauled myself upward, feeling blood on my hands. Looking round, I saw two men in black suits spill from the back door. Both were carrying silenced pistols and raised them at me. I propelled myself over the wall and crashed onto the lane beyond. My knees took the brunt of the fall. They weren’t in as bad a state as Burdett’s, but they still hurt like hell. I ran down the lane and made it to the street. No one tried to stop me. I turned right.
And there was a screech of tires behind me. I dropped down between two large sedans. I had a few seconds to make a decision about how to play this. “Always attack,” Dave used to say. That was easy to do when you were surrounded by your SAS comrades in full-destroy mode, but the advice had been good in the past. I stuck the Glock under my belt and took out the combat knife. The black car had slowed down and was keeping pace with the men on foot, whose steps I could hear approaching. I let the first one go past, then rose up quickly to grab the second round his neck, the point of the knife breaking the skin lower down his back. That was another of Dave’s catchphrases—always shed blood if you want to gain con
trol. I felt thick drops daub my hand.
“Tell them,” I said to the man, who was standing stock-still in my grip.
“He’s cutting me with a knife,” he said. The unwavering nature of his voice told me he was a pro.
“Put the gun down,” I said to the man in front. I watched as he complied, relieving my man of his weapon at the same time. A silenced pistol was much more use in a city street. I looked to my left. The large black limousine was a few feet away, the window at the front passenger’s seat lowered. I saw two guys inside, both in suits. They looked like the president’s detail, moonlighting.
“Out,” I said. “Both of you. If you want your friend to keep his kidney, don’t let me see any weapons.”
They came out slowly, glancing at each other. I had a feeling they weren’t meant to pay much attention to each other’s safety, so I needed to get moving. I dragged my captive to the car and bundled him inside after I’d tossed another silenced pistol onto the floor. There was enough space for me to clamber over him before he could react. I dropped into the spacious driver’s seat, engaged Drive and hit the gas. I heard a series of dull noises before we’d gone fifty yards—they must have had back up weapons under their jackets. The man next to me slumped forward. The car’s glass was obviously armored, as the rear windscreen was hardly marked, but my captive had been unlucky. A bullet had ricocheted off the door frame and hit him in the head.
I knew for certain that the surviving pursuers would be phoning for reinforcements. It was also likely that some public-spirited resident had witnessed the scene and called the cops, so I dumped the limo three streets down and walked as nonchalantly as I could onto M Street. A taxi was passing and I immediately hailed it, telling the driver to take me to Union Station. I could melt into the crowds there and pick up the Metro. I was glad I’d studied the city map before leaving my hotel.
I took frequent glances over my shoulder and thought about what I’d done. Had showing myself to Gavin Burdett been worth it? On balance, I reckoned it had. I was now completely sure that he’d been involved in Karen’s disappearance, and mine, too, most likely. Joe would probably be able to trace the owners of the house—they might not be too clean, either. As for the damage I’d done to the banker’s knees and the accidental death of the man I’d taken hostage, I didn’t waste time on remorse. I had the feeling that I hadn’t always been as hard-edged as that. Then I recalled what had been done to innocent people at the camp. I could only hope that Karen was still alive and well. At least the bad men knew I was on their case now. That meant I was going to have to stand tall—and I wasn’t sure if I was up to that.
Another thought struck me. Maybe what had been done to me in the camp was behind my ability to evade capture and get as far as D.C.—maybe I’d been turned into a callous killer. I’d killed before, as the FBI notification had indicated in Maine. But now I was really good at it.
Thirty-Four
Gerard Pinker was cold, hungry and seriously bored. He’d been in the cocktail bar around the corner from Gordy Lister’s office for three and a half hours while the newspaperman got more and more drunk. The detective was wearing a mustache that came down to his chin and a suit that Chief Owen, the department’s resident fashion critic, would have seen as way too preppy. Pinker had borrowed it from his younger brother Leonard, who worked for a D.C. lobbying company and was conveniently the same size.
If his man had done anything interesting, Pinker could have hacked the evening. It would also have helped if he’d been able to drink more than a couple of beers. But Gordy Lister had sat at the bar, talking to no one except the male barkeep. He’d used his cell phone a few times, but never for long; none of the conversations had made him noticeably happier, either. Pinker hadn’t trusted his disguise enough to go nearer, so he hadn’t heard what Lister had been saying. He was about to call Clem and ask him to take over early, when a tall guy with short fair hair walked in and stood next to Lister. Pinker decided to go for broke. When he got to the bar, he still couldn’t hear much because of a couple of guys whining about the Redskins nearby.
Gerard Pinker ordered another beer and leaned forward, pretending he was scoping the female barkeep’s ass. For a few moments he thought Lister had made him. The newspaperman caught his eye, but there was no sign of recognition in the bleary gaze. The tall guy was talking in a low voice more or less directly into Gordy’s ear, his eyes never wavering from the other man’s face. Pinker got the feeling that the verbal shit was being kicked out of his target. Then, with no warning, the other man and Gordy headed rapidly out the door.
Pinker threw some money on the bar and went after them, counting fifteen before he opened the door. When he hit the street, the pair was already moving away to his right. The detective waited another fifteen seconds—that had been the unit of time he’d been taught to stick to by a veteran cop when he was young—then set off after them. At the end of the street they stopped, forcing him to slip into a doorway. When he looked out again, he saw they had separated. It was decision time—should he follow Lister or the guy who’d been chewing him out?
In any event, Pinker never had to make his mind up. His cell phone vibrated against his thigh and he answered quietly.
“You better can the tail, Vers. There’s been another murder,” Clem said in a low voice. “There’s been another murder.”
“Shit. Our killer?”
“Sounds like it. The vic’s a woman over in Lincoln Park. She read tarot cards for a living.”
“What about the Feds?”
“If we get there first, it’s ours till they start crying to Chief Owen.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Pinker scribbled the address down in his notebook and looked around for a taxi.
Lister and his interlocutor had already disappeared.
I was sitting at the window of a coffee shop in Adams Morgan. When Joe Greenbaum came in, I looked down the street in both directions. There was no obvious tail.
“Jesus, Joe, that stuff will kill you,” I said, when he sat down with an enormous mug of cream-topped coffee. “So, what have you discovered?”
“The house in Georgetown is owned by a company called N.E.W.S. Properties,” he said, swallowing from the mug.
“Mean anything to you?”
The reporter grinned. “Sure. It’s a subsidiary of Woodbridge Holdings.”
That rang a bell. “Woodbridge Holdings?” I repeated. “That was the name on the logging truck I stowed away on in Maine.” The logo came back to me, too. “The words were written on an open newspaper.”
“You got it, Matt,” Joe said, licking cream from his mustache. “It’s kinda interesting. Woodbridge Holdings owns numerous papers across the country, including that rag the Star Reporter. They also own large stretches of forest and produce their own stocks of paper. Guess where?”
“Not Maine by any chance?”
“Bull’s-eye again, Matt.”
“The camp I escaped from—maybe Woodbridge Holdings owns that, too.”
Joe gulped down the last of his coffee. “They certainly have enough of Maine under their belts. There’s more. They also have interests in drug research and production. And, to advise them on their substantial foreign investments, they use a London-based bank by the name of—”
“Routh Limited. Employers of one Gavin Burdett.”
“Correct. Did you never see Woodbridge Holdings in Karen’s files, Matt? She must have known about them, since she was after Burdett.”
I shrugged. “I may have, but I don’t remember.” I broke off as a nasty thought came to me. “Maybe they wiped stuff like that from my memory at the camp.”
“Doesn’t seem to have been wholly successful,” Joe observed.
“Not wholly.” Then, suddenly, I felt as if the furniture in my brain had started to rearrange itself. Things I hadn’t been able to connect came together. “Karen must have found evidence linking Woodbridge and Routh. So she was kidnapped.”
“And so were you, after
you kicked up such a fuss.” Joe looked down at his empty cup. “But that doesn’t explain the occult murders. I can’t believe they’re doing them just to frame you. Besides, the first one happened before you escaped.”
I remembered the BlackBerry I’d taken from Gavin Burdett and handed it to Joe. “See what you can find in that. Back in London I tailed Burdett to an occult supplies shop. Maybe there’s some link between him and the killings.”
The reporter looked at me doubtfully. “You think he’s the murderer?”
“He’s a sleazy bastard,” I said, then shook my head. “But I doubt he’s capable of murder. Anyway, he’s the kind of tosser who would pay somebody else to do his dirty work.”
“He works for Woodbridge Holdings, so that puts the focus on them. And we’re in luck there. They have their head office in this fair city.”
“Is that right? What about the Antichurch? Did you find anything on it?”
Joe sighed. “A few references on the kind of Web site that’s written and read by crazies. People seem pretty much in awe of it, though. Or scared shitless. I sent my e-mail address and asked them to contact me, but don’t hold your breath.”
“Jesus, Joe, that was taking a chance. You’ve made yourself a target.”
He shrugged. “Not for the first time. They’ll have to get in line.”
I was impressed by his understated courage. “What happened at the FBI press conference?”
“Nothing much. They didn’t release the dead man’s name—they say they’re contacting the family. They seemed pretty sure the occult killer got him. There’s some evidence linking the victim to the others, but they didn’t give details.”
I stood up.
“What are you going to do, Matt?” Joe asked apprehensively.
I smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ve kicked enough kneecaps for one day.”
That didn’t seem to reassure him much. “They’ll really be after you now,” he said.
“Give me the Woodbridge Holdings address, will you?”
Maps of Hell Page 24
