“What is it, Konrad?” Hecht asked the first man, a square-set blond with a flat, stupid face. “Fünf Männer,” Konrad panted. “Mehr draussen. Stellen unten fragen. ”
“Problem?” Renwick asked Hecht, setting aside his annoyance at Hecht’s breaking his promise that they would not be interrupted. The tension in Konrad’s voice suggested this was not the moment to raise it.
“We’ve got company.”
“Police?”
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Hecht looked questioningly at Konrad, who responded,
“Ja. Ut Bundesnachrichtendienst.”
“The secret service?” It was Dmitri’s turn to speak. “How the hell did they get on to us so fast?”
“The concierge,” said Renwick slowly, recalling the man’s fingernails tapping nervously on the counter and the anxious look in his eyes. “I thought he was just tired, but he knew something. He was expecting me.”
“We’ll deal with him later,” Dmitri snarled. “Have you got a way out, Colonel?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Gut. Use it. We’ll continue this later.” He hung up and the line hummed noisily until Hecht leaned forward and punched the off button.
“How are we going to get past them?” Renwick asked casually, masking his concern. Normally he wouldn’t have been too worried. He had been in worse situations, much worse, and still slipped away unnoticed. But on those occasions he had been operating alone, able to think for himself, to react as he saw fit, to take whatever steps he deemed necessary. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he was relying on others for his safe passage, people he didn’t know or trust. He didn’t like it.
“With these—” Konrad reappeared carrying several uniforms identical to the ones he and the other two men were wearing. He threw them to the floor and then indicated that Renwick should put one on. “Schnell.”
Renwick picked up a thick blue jacket and examined it skeptically. “What is it?”
“Fireman’s uniform,” said Hecht, grabbing one and pulling it on.
“Where is the fire?” Renwick asked as he buttoned up the jacket, then stepped into a pair of trousers, pulling them up over his suit.
“Right where you’re standing. Karl, Florian—”
The two men disappeared into what Renwick assumed to be the bedroom, returning with a couple of large jerry cans. Rapidly and methodically they made their way around the
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room, sloshing gasoline over the carpet, sofa, and curtains. The smell, sweet and metallic, hit the back of Renwick’s throat.
Meanwhile Hecht and Konrad were busy wiping the door handles, table, whiskey bottle, and anything else that any of them might have touched or used, even smashing Renwick’s glass against the wall. It was slick and professional, and within thirty seconds the room was clean. Renwick felt his concern easing.
“Take this.” Konrad handed him a pale yellow helmet, its surface chipped and covered in soot in a way that suggested its owner was a veteran of many years’ hard-fought firefighting experience. When on, the built-in respirator and goggles almost completely obscured the wearer’s face.
“Ready?” Hecht asked. They all nodded, put their helmets on, and followed him out into the hall. Hecht walked up to the fire alarm between the twin elevator shafts and smashed it with a jab of his right elbow.
The corridor was immediately filled with a piercing shriek as the alarm sounded, followed a few seconds later by the sound of doors opening and faces peeking out of rooms farther down the corridor. The sight of Renwick and the others standing there in full firefighting gear turned their expressions from concern, and in some cases annoyance, to undisguised fear and panic. Within seconds, guests in various states of undress were stampeding toward the fire escape and the safety of the ground floor.
“The alarm automatically shuts off all the lifts, making it impossible for our friends downstairs to get up here that way . . .”
“. . . And the crowd heading down the fire escapes should delay their progress if they try to use the stairs.” Renwick completed his sentence for him, admiring the simplicity of the tactic. “But how do we get out?”
“There’s a lift at the rear of the building that remains operational even in a fire, provided you have a key.” Hecht dangled a small key in front of Renwick’s face. “The fire
brigade
will
be
here
within
three
minutes.
As
soon
as
they
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arrive, we’ll take the lift down to the basement and then go through the car park. In the confusion, no one will notice five more men in uniform.”
Hecht slipped a box of matches out of his pocket and shook to check it was full. He turned to face the suite’s open doorway.
“May I?” Renwick inquired.
“Of course.” Hecht handed over the matches with a small bow and an amused grin.
“You look like you’re going to enjoy this.”
Renwick took one last, disdainful look at the clumsy furniture, beige carpet, gold cushions, and brown curtains before striking the match and holding it in front of him.
“More
than
you
could
possibly
know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
KITZBÜHEL, AUSTRIA
January 7—3:52 p.m.
Given that it was the only stained-glass window in the entire church, Archie felt rather foolish for not having noticed it sooner. What made it special, though, was not its uniqueness but the fact that it was an identical copy of the painting of the castle in Weissman’s photograph.
“How long has this been here?” was his slightly bemused question.
“It was gift from my uncle. In memory of my aunt.”
“When did she die?”
Maria shook her head. “Before I was born. In fifty-five, fifty-six. Cancer. He used to come here to pray for her . . .” “Do you mind if I take a picture?” She looked nervously over her shoulder, saw that the church was empty, and shrugged her consent.
“Ja, okay. No problem.”
Archie slipped the digital camera Tom had loaned him out of his pocket and took several shots of the window and the plaque underneath it, the flash spitting its incongruous white light into the church’s gloom.
The window was unmistakably modern, the glass smooth, the lead fittings crisp, with none
of
the
rippled
imperfections
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or sagging geometry typical of older church windows. Yet, for all that, it had been classically executed, depicting a castle on a hill, a couple of birds wheeling overhead and, in the foreground, a few trees clustered around a bubbling spring. When he was satisfied that he had enough shots, he turned to face Maria again.
“What did he do, your uncle? You know, for a job.”
“He was professor at Universität Wien,” she said proudly. “The oldest Germanspeaking university in the world.”
“Teaching . . . ?”
“Physics.”
“And before that? In the war?”
She snorted, half in frustration, half in amusement. “Pah. Always the war with you English. It is obsession for you, ja?”
“No, it’s just that—”
“Uncle Manfred didn’t fight,” she said. “He told me. He was too young.”
They had begun to walk back toward the entrance as they were speaking and were now standing by the door. Archie pulled his collar up in anticipation of the sharp slap of cold air when they stepped outside.
“Just one last thing”—Archie had almost forgotten to mention it—“Would you take a look at this for me? Tell me if you recognize anyone.”
He handed over a copy of the photograph of three men in SS uniform that they
had found at Weissman’s house. She took it from him and studied it carefully. When she looked up her eyes were angry and her voice hard.
“Is this English sense of humor?”
“No, why?”
“You have made this as a joke, yes? To make fun of me?”
“No, of course not.”
“I not believe you. This picture is a lie.” She was almost shouting now, her voice resonating off the whitewashed stone walls. “Why you come here? To trick me?”
“Is one of those men your uncle?” Archie guessed.
“You know this. Why else are you here?”
“We
found
this
picture
yesterday
in
London,
together
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with the envelope I showed you,” Archie explained. “I swear, until just now I had no idea your uncle was in it. Which one is he?”
She looked down at the photo again, gripping it tightly. “The man on the left. That was Uncle Manfred.”
“I’m sorry.” Archie sighed.
“Sorry? Why?” Her tone switched from anger to indifference. “This is mistake. Simple mistake. He was too young to fight. He told me.”
“I’d love to believe you,” said Archie. “But you see the man in the middle? His daughter didn’t think he had fought either. She was wrong. He’d lied to her. He’d lied to everyone.”
“He had a daughter?” She sounded less sure of herself now.
“Older than you, but not by much. She was the one who discovered this photo, not me.”
“And she thinks . . . she thinks this is real?” Maria seemed to have shrunk before his eyes, her voice fading to a whisper, her eyes brimming with tears.
“Oh yeah,” Archie said gently, trying to erase the image of Elena Weissman’s bloody corpse that had been burned into his mind. “You see, she discovered a room, a secret room where her father had kept all his wartime mementos hidden from her. Uniforms, flags, guns, medals.”
“Medals?” She looked up, wiping the palm of her hand across her cheek. “War medals?”
“Yes.” Archie frowned. “Why?”
“Folgen Sie mir.” She drew herself up straight once again. “I must show you. Kommen Sie.”
She threw the door open and hurried out through the churchyard. As she reached the top of the steps leading down to the road, she hesitated for a second, her head swiveling to the left, then back again, muttering under her breath all the while. Archie turned his head to see what she’d been looking at. It was a black marble gravestone, newer than those that flanked it. Although he couldn’t read the epitaph, the name,
picked
out
in
large
gold
letters,
was
clearly
visible.
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DR. MANFRED LAMMERS.
They retraced their steps in silence. Maria’s shock seemed to have been replaced by an unsmiling resolve. Once inside the house, she directed him to the sitting room and disappeared into one of the rooms at the back. Archie stepped into the room, removed his coat and gloves, and sat down on the cream sofa. The self-assembly furniture looked new and cheap. A gaudy brass and crystal-effect chandelier hung from the middle of the ceiling, casting a yellow wash over the clipframes that adorned the white walls, each containing a shiny Picasso print. Maria came back into the room carrying a small wooden box made from an attractive polished walnut that glowed like the dash of an old sports car. Archie’s eyes lit up at the sight of something old and well made. It was about eight inches across and five inches wide, with a small brass key protruding from the lock. The lid was flat and sat slightly raised above the sides, which rose four inches above a flared base. But it was the symbol inlaid into the lid that grabbed his attention. Two concentric circles with a black disc at their center and runic lightning bolts radiating out from the middle, twelve of them in all. It was identical to the symbol he had seen on the cap badge of Weissman’s uniform.
“He died in a fire.” She placed the box on the white plastic coffee table in front of him.
“The house had to be almost completely rebuilt. This was the only thing that survived. I found it in his car. I thought he had bought it at a fair somewhere, that it wasn’t his. Now
. . .” Her voice faded and she sat down opposite him, staring at the box with an expression halfway between fear and suspicion. “Please take it with you. I don’t want it in the house anymore.”
Archie turned the key and gingerly opened the lid. Inside, on a red velvet lining, lay a medal, its black, red, and white ribbon folded underneath it. The shape was unmistakable. A
Nazi
Iron
Cross.
CHAPTER THIRTY
FBI HEADQUARTERS, SALT LAKE CITY DIVISION, UTAH
January 7—8:37 a.m.
As he approached Viggiano’s office door, Bailey heard raised voices, then the sound of something being thrown or kicked across the room. Whatever it was, he guessed that it must have made a rather large dent in the wall.
Before he had a chance to knock, the door flew open and Viggiano marched out, his face red with rage. He paused midstride and looked Bailey up and down with disdain, his left eye twitching furiously, both his hands clenched. Then, with an angry snort, he shouldered roughly past him toward the exit.
Bailey watched his retreating back until he disappeared from view, then turned to face the open doorway. Regional Director Carter was sitting at Viggiano’s desk. In front of him, neatly arranged on the blotter, were a service revolver and an FBI badge. An upended wastepaper basket lay beneath a deep scar in the wall.
“Bailey”—Carter’s voice was cold and businesslike— “get in here. And shut the door.”
Bailey closed the door behind him and sat down nervously at the chair indicated by Carter. The story was that the director had joined the FBI after a car accident and a collapsed
lung
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had ended his professional football career before it had even begun. It was a story that the director’s appearance did little to dispel; tall, broad-chested, with a tanned, square face, deep-set brown eyes, and an aggressive manner that seemed more suited to calling plays than running an investigation. The irony was that he was often mistaken for a realtor, having a seemingly endless supply of striped polyester ties and button-down white cotton shirts.
He fixed Bailey with a silent, slightly questioning gaze, his hands steepled pensively under his chin. Bailey’s eyes flicked nervously to the floor, the silence increasingly awkward as he waited for Carter to speak. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Bailey coughed and mumbled an apology.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you, sir.”
“You weren’t disturbing anything. As you can see, Agent Viggiano and I were just clearing up a few . . . administrative details.” His eyes drifted to the gun and badge.
“After what went down in Idaho, it’s best for him and for us that he sits out the next few months until we get a clear picture of exactly what happened up there. Anyway, it’s out of my hands now.”
Bailey felt his heart sink. He’d been around long enough to see where this was heading. With twenty-six civilians confirmed dead, the suits in DC were looking for scapegoats. Everyone who’d been up in the mountains that day was going to get sucked in. By the time it was over, he’d be lucky if they gave him a job in the car pool.
“Vasquez tells me you cautioned against opening that door. Is this true?” asked Carter.
“Eh . . .” Bailey hesitated, the question catching him off-guard. “Yes, sir. I thought I saw someone signaling at us not to come in.”
“But Viggiano overruled you?”
“Well . . .” Bailey wavered. The last thing he wanted was a reputation as a snitch.
“Don’t worry, Vasquez gave me the full rundown.” Carter smile
d, his earlier, rather distant manner melting away. “Said you saved his life. Way I see it, you did a great job up there. A great job. If Viggiano had listened to you instead of . . . Well, let’s just say you
did
a
great
job.”
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Bailey’s smile quickly faded at the memory of the body bags arranged on the fresh snow outside the farmhouse like the spokes on a wheel.
“It would have been a great job if we’d saved those people, sir.”
“You did the best you could. I can’t ask anyone to do any
more than that.” “No, sir.” “So where are you taking this next?” “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.” Bailey frowned. “Viggiano’s off the case, but you don’t get off so easy. What leads have you got?” “We’ve got a composite sketch of our Unsub, based on Hennessy’s description.” “Any use?” “European male. Five ten. Cropped blond hair. Unshaven.
About a hundred and ninety pounds.” “That’s it?” “ ’Fraid so. And now Hennessy’s attorney is arguing that,
until he sees a written offer, that’s all we’ll get.”
“A written offer for what in return?” Carter demanded. “I mean, he’s not given us much, has he? No ID, no distinguishing marks, just some bullshit story and a name that’s probably an alias.”
“Blondi?” “Yeah.” “You know that was the name of Hitler’s dog.” “What?” Carter looked nonplussed. “Hitler’s favorite dog was called Blondi.” “You think that might be relevant?” “Well, so far we’ve got someone using the name of Hit-ler’s dog, the theft of a Nazi Enigma machine, and the involvement of a neo-Nazi group. It sure doesn’t sound like a coincidence.”
“You could be right,” Carter said. “Let’s get everything we can on the Sons of American Liberty and any other extremist groups they might have links to. See if this Blondi surfaces anywhere else. Let’s check out the Enigma machine too—see if we can come up with a list of likely buyers.”
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“Actually, sir, I’ve already done some work on that.” Bailey laid the file he’d been clutching on the desk.
“You have?”
“An Enigma machine is a pretty unusual item to steal. I figured that Blondi might be working for a collector or dealer. So I ran down all the major military memorabilia auctions over the last five years and cross-referenced the lists of buyers.”
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