“Who else?”
A stern-looking nurse bustled into the room. “You’ll have to leave now, sir. We’re going to do a CAT scan.”
“About time,” the detective said, with a slow grin.
The nurse’s expression slackened. “There’s been a run on the machines this evening. So much for law and order in this city.”
Sebastian leaned closer. “One more thing, Detective. Larry Thomson. Are you sure about him?”
Clem nodded, his eyes closing. “Oh, yeah. Woodbridge Holdings is a hotbed of fuckin’ Nazi…” Suddenly his head slumped to the side and one of the monitors sounded a continuous alarm.
Peter Sebastian was pushed out of the way by a doctor and watched as Clem Simmons’s bed was wheeled out of the room, nurses pulling the monitors alongside. Turning the pages of his notes, he shook his head. Karen Oaten had returned safely, but all hell had broken out. And the cherry on the cake was that Matt Wells hadn’t been the occult killer after all.
The FBI man heard the sound of his career crashing all around him. He needed to do some major ass-covering, both on his own account and on that of his secondary employers, the CIA—they would be very unhappy if the Agency’s protection of Nazi doctors was made public after all this time. Fortunately, Dana Maltravers would be the perfect scapegoat.
I had done what I could to prepare my stash of weapons when Lister called.
“Anacostia Marina, 7:30 a.m.,” he said. “If you look at a map, it’s northeast of the John Philip Sousa Bridge—a couple of miles before the Anacostia River meets the Potomac. He’s got this big black-and-silver motherfucker of a cabin cruiser. It’s called the Isolde. Oh, and he’s coming alone.”
“Yeah, right.” I grabbed my D.C. map and spotted the place.
“That’s what he told me, man.”
“All right, Gordy. Did you tell him about his sister?”
“Yeah.”
“How did he take it?”
“He didn’t start yelling and screaming, if that’s what you mean.”
“Cool as a cucumber, eh?”
“More like icy as the berg that gutted the Titanic. I gotta go, man.”
“You’re tainted goods with your employer, Gordy,” I said, unwilling to let him off the hook. “New Mexico might just be far enough.”
“Bullshit. Larry knows I’m okay.”
“Or maybe South America,” I continued. “There’s no shortage of Nazis there.”
“Hey, haven’t you noticed? There are Nazis everywhere. Get over it.”
He cut the connection. He’d said that Thomson knew he was okay. I would remember that. I still wasn’t convinced that Gordy Lister was in the clear over Joe’s death.
I looked at my watch. I had just over two hours. That should be enough time to reconnoiter the location and make the kind of preparations that I’d learned from Dave Cummings. I had the feeling Thomson might screw up—unless his trap was already in place. I put my weapons into a handyman’s bag and went down to reception. The guy wasn’t impressed when I asked him for some resealable plastic food bags from the kitchen, but a couple of twenties cheered him up. I put the bags in my pocket and went out onto the street. Round the corner, I picked up a cab.
The driver dropped me on the Anacostia side of the bridge. It was still dark and there weren’t many lights in the strip of parkland below. I went down and walked along the bank until I was opposite the marina. I couldn’t see any sign of a large cabin cruiser, which suited me fine. Squatting by a bush, I put a loaded Glock 17 into a plastic bag, sealed it and then slipped it into another bag. Then I took off my shirt and, using the roll of insulating tape that had been part of my tool kit, I strapped the bagged pistol onto my chest. After removing a long strip, I put the insulating tape into another bag and sealed it. That bag, I also lashed to my chest. Then I stripped to my boxer shorts and attached the sheathed combat knife to my belt, before putting the latter round my waist. I could have walked across the bridge and taken my chances with whatever kind of security there was at the marina, but I wasn’t going to risk being caught—at least, not before I’d given myself a fighting chance. I took a deep breath and lowered myself into the water. I wasn’t the greatest of swimmers, but I was in reasonable shape. The problem was going to be the water temperature.
And, I realized after I’d taken a few strokes, the current. I’d not considered that. Fortunately the river wasn’t much more than a hundred and fifty yards wide, though I must have swum a lot more than that and my feet and hands were tingling in the cold. I made it to one of the wooden piers and looked around. There were enough lights for me to see that the pier I was at was the only one with clear space at the end. That was where Thomson would have to moor his cruiser. I clambered up the stanchions, breathing heavily and stood on the one beneath the end of the pier, the wind chilling me even more. With fumbling fingers, I managed to cut strips of tape and attach the bagged pistol to the underside so it was within reach if I lay on the decking above. Now all I had to do was swim back.
Because I was tired and cold, that proved to be a much harder job. At one point I thought I was going to be swept down to the Potomac, but somehow I kept going, flailing my arms and legs. I heaved myself out and used hotel towels to dry myself. Then I got back into my clothes and put on my watch. I had plenty of time to get dressed, making sure there was no dampness in my hair. I put Clem’s service revolver in my pocket—Thomson would no doubt expect me to be armed. I would hand it over with fake reluctance when he searched me.
I started walking around to get myself fully warmed up. During that time, I considered the name chosen for the boat, presumably by Larry Thomson—maybe his sister had her say, too. Tristan and Isolde were mythical doomed lovers and the Nazis’ favorite composer, Richard Wagner, had written an opera about them. It struck me that Thomson was taking a chance using a name that pointed so directly to his German roots. Maybe he was so arrogant that he thought he could get away with anything because he’d taken on a new identity. Then again, it was a fact that all sorts of people who maybe should have known better attended performances of Wagner’s work and openly proclaimed their admiration for it.
The lovers Tristan and Isolde: I wondered if there was some incestuous bond between the twins. I thought about Thomson’s sister. I hadn’t meant to kill Irma Rothmann, but my mind had been all over the place and I’d had a rush of blood when I acted. Although it wasn’t the first time I’d killed, the death of the Soul Collector’s sister had been an accident and I still regretted it. With the woman whose father had worked at Auschwitz, I seemed to be curiously unmoved. Thomson’s twin was a Nazi whose activities had probably led to many deaths and plenty of suffering at the camp, but I would still have expected some kind of emotional backlash.
Instead, I started thinking about the trigger that turned Gwen and Randy into vicious aggressors. All it had taken was the single word Barbarossa. I seemed to have a lot of information at my fingertips about it. My memory was still behaving very unpredictably—had this stuff been planted? Barbarossa, or Redbeard, was the nickname of Fredrick I of the Hohenstaufen dynasty, Holy Roman Emperor from 1155 until his death in 1190. He was a great general and natural leader, and an inspiration to future generations of Germans, particularly those driven by dreams of conquest—whence the use of his nickname for the Nazi operation to attack the Soviet Union.
I twitched my head and came back to the real world. The point was that hearing Barbarossa had made Gwen and Randy act in a way that was obviously preconditioned. Their escape from the camp was just a story. They were playing parts in some devious plan, pretending to be junkies, perhaps unaware or only partly aware of what was happening. Which led to another thought. Exactly why had they been hanging out in a disused warehouse in D.C.? Gordy Lister knew, I was sure of that. Letting him go was looking even more like a cardinal error. Had the twins been stashed there because of the proximity to the Capitol or the White House?
A siren on the other side of the river caught my
attention. I waited till it faded, then hid the bag with my remaining gear under a bush and walked across the bridge. As I got to the other side, I saw a bulky shadow pass quietly underneath. It was a dark boat with silver trim and was showing only running lights. I reckoned that was the Isolde. It slowed as it approached the pier. I focused on my plan of action. It was only a few minutes’ walk to the marina. The gate had already been opened for early morning business. I went in and walked toward the piers. It was a relief to see the cruiser was heading where I had anticipated. As I approached that pier, two men stepped out of the shadows. So much for Thomson coming alone. I was patted down and relieved of my cell phone and revolver, and an electronic scanner was run over me to check for surveillance devices. Eventually I was pushed toward the boat. Looking round, I saw that the gorillas weren’t following me.
I stopped at the end of the pier.
“Thomson?” I called. “I’m coming aboard.”
The tall man was fastening a mooring rope at the stern of the boat. He had a cell phone against his ear, having presumably just been informed by the guards that I was clean. Suddenly fearful of facing him unarmed, I was tempted to scrabble for the pistol under the pier, but I got a grip on myself. Surrendering was the only way I would be able to get close to the surviving twin.
I stepped onto the boat, ignoring Thomson’s outstretched hand. He was wearing a black polo-neck and black trousers, and he looked in good physical shape. As he led me into the cabin, I tried to see if he was armed. I needn’t have bothered.
He turned toward me and invited me to search him. I did so, and found nothing. He must have been following some weird Nazi honor code.
“Good,” he said, with a surprisingly warm smile. “Now we can get down to business. You’re lucky that I’m anxious to meet you. I don’t normally bother with such day-to-day nuisances.”
It was then that the door to the front cabin opened.
Larry Thomson had lied about being alone, all right. Not only that, but he’d invited the surviving occult killer along.
And Gwen Bonhoff didn’t look at all forgiving about what I’d done to her twin brother and her Führer’s sister.
Forty-Three
“You can use this office, Detective Chief Superintendent.”
Karen Oaten glanced around the spacious room and nodded to the female agent.
“I’ll be outside if you need anything.”
“Thanks.” Karen put her briefcase down on the desk. Despite the early hour, there were plenty of people already at work in the J. Edgar Hoover building. Someone had stacked mail on the desk.
Sitting down, she went through the letters. Some of it dated from before her kidnap and concerned the Burdett case. She discarded that. There were also messages from back then, including some from senators and representatives with interests in international crime and policing. Turning to the computer, she saw a sheet of paper telling her how to log on and access her personal e-mail. She did so and was immediately alert.
The first message was from the director of the FBI. He congratulated her on her courage during the kidnapping and invited her to a celebration of her release that afternoon at four o’clock. He couldn’t be certain, but there was a good chance that the justice secretary would attend—she had followed Karen’s ordeal with great interest and wished to welcome her back in person, depending, of course, on her schedule.
Karen sat back, a smile on her lips. That was excellent, even more than she had hoped for. She had only to wait until the afternoon. Then she could guarantee that the news programs would have a hot story to report. But, more important, the movement would be fully under way and nothing would ever be the same again.
“She isn’t armed,” Larry Thomson said, his eyes blue and chill in the soft lights of the cruiser’s surprisingly large living space.
I looked at Gwen. She seemed to be having trouble keeping control of herself, her hands twitching and her eyes wide.
“She’s got nails,” I said.
“Indeed she has.” Thomson sat down and waved to me to do the same. “My little tigress.” He gave her a tight smile.
I decided to go on the offensive. I needed to get the self-styled Führer talking.
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to call you Rothmann.”
“Oh, please—do use my first name.”
I wasn’t going to do his bidding. “Why the change to Thomson?”
He looked at me curiously. “I thought you had everything worked out, Mr. Wells.”
“Obviously not.”
“You see, Irma and I died in 1972.”
“Really? So I killed a ghost last night, did I? A vampire? Yeah, that makes sense. You Nazis share plenty of characteristics with the undead.”
“There’s no need to be crude,” Thomson said, taking a cigarette from a silver case and lighting it. “I’m telling you about my personal history. Are you interested or not?”
I shrugged. He had me there. I needed as much detail as I could get if I was ever to clear myself—assuming I survived this tête-à-tête.
“We went over a cliff in my sports car.”
“Except you substituted the bodies. Who were they? Some unfortunate college kids?”
He smiled emptily. “Jews.”
A wave of nausea washed over me. I took a deep breath. “What was the point of the scam? Was your family background becoming an embarrassment?”
He frowned. “Let’s say that the American establishment was less keen to have links to the Third Reich in the seventies, even though we were second generation.”
“So you reinvented yourselves.”
“Exactly. It’s the American way. Of course, we kept on doing what we were good at. My sister—” he broke off and eyed me with a worrying lack of emotion “—Irma is…” He broke off and pursed his lips. “Irma was a brilliant chemist, as well as a world-class neuroscientist. She developed many drugs and processes that have become world beaters.”
“Including the ones that messed with my memory?”
“Yes—though, it would seem, not enough.”
“And you provided the business expertise that turned Woodbridge Holdings into a successful multinational company.” I gave him a harsh glare, trying to provoke him. “That camp in Maine was just a test bed for Irma’s drugs. And a place for your little Nazi army to grow like fungus in the forest.”
Rothmann nodded impassively. “Irma didn’t just work with drugs, though. She was also involved with some remarkable machines.”
I had a flash of the complex mechanical lid that had lowered over me—the martial music, the uniforms, images from what I now realized was Nazi Germany.
What was it they had called the process?
“Coffining,” I said. “What a pretty name.”
“Because the subjects died and became ours,” Rothmann said, his eyes narrowing. “In most cases.”
“You brainwashed me.”
“Not just you,” he said dismissively. “There are many who came through with substantially better results.” He angled his head toward the young woman opposite. “Including Gwen.”
I looked at her. She seemed confused, her eyes darting between him and me.
“You bastard,” I said. “You turned her into a killer. You made her and her brother carry out the occult killings, didn’t you?”
He looked at me and shook his head slowly. “That is where you show your ignorance.” His cell phone rang. “Yes, the comrade is expected,” he said, after listening intently. “Very well. Send her over.”
I wondered who this could be. Another from the Rothmann parade of twin zombies? I heard light steps on the pier outside and a knock on the door.
“Come!” ordered the Führer.
The door slid open and a figure wearing a black rain jacket stepped inside. There was a hood over the head and I couldn’t make out the face in the dim light of the cabin.
“Show yourself,” Rothmann said. There was a tightness in his voice that hadn’t been there b
efore.
I felt my stomach somersault before the features came into view. Could it be that my ex-lover Sara Robbins, the Soul Collector, was behind the killings after all? Could she have inveigled her way into Rothmann’s confidence? I didn’t have the slightest doubt that she could have.
The hood was pulled back and I felt my gut clench. I’d seen the angular features before. I’d been bound to a wheelchair, surrounded by naked, chanting people—and, up at the front, there had been a pair of prancing figures. One had a hyena’s head and the other the stony face of the most depraved gargoyle. The latter was on display now.
“How dare you?” Rothmann said, spittle flying from his mouth. “Take that mask off immediately!”
A hand was raised slowly to the repulsive features—I had a vision of the naked woman, the one I’d feared was Karen, being tied to the upturned cross and then butchered. Then I saw that the person before me was a young woman, red hair pulled back from an attractive face. She dropped the mask to the floor with disgust.
“I know you,” I said, as my memory kicked in. “You were at Joe Greenbaum’s place with Clem Simmons.”
The woman nodded. “That’s right. I’m medical examiner for the MPDC, actually—Marion Gilbert’s the name. And you’re Matt Wells, the so-called occult killer, aren’t you? I’ve seen your photograph.”
Rothmann was looking at her curiously. “It’s good to see you, Doctor. But I’m rather busy at the moment. Could you perhaps wait? There is very comfortable accommodation that way.” He pointed toward the bow of the Isolde. “Please take the mask with you. I will need you to explain what you’re doing with it. The original is dedicated to the unholy ritual. No copies should ever have been made.”
“I made it out of misplaced love.” The doctor laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “I’m not going anywhere, my Führer.” She spoke the title as if it burned her tongue. There was a blur of movement, after which I saw she was holding a vicious-looking skewer in each hand.
Rothmann looked astonished. “You!” he gasped. “You’re the occult killer? But…but you were one of our earliest subjects, you were trusted with—”
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