The nameless dead

Twenty-Nine

Peter Sebastian was sitting outside the interview room in the Hoover Building, a cup of cold coffee on the floor between his feet. Arthur Bimsdale had gone to find some food for them while Sir Andrew Frogget made his telephone call. The investment banker had insisted he talk to his lawyer, even though Bimsdale had faxed the slippery Martin Mallinson a selection of the juiciest photos of his client.

There would be some very angry people when Bureau staff started knocking at their doors. They had finally found a way into the secret world behind Rothmann’s activities. Although a lot of the companies were little more than fronts, the financial crime experts would have plenty to work on.

It should have been a triumph, though Sebastian couldn’t see it that way. Valerie Hinton hadn’t called yet, but she would, as soon as the news got out. And then the full might of the CIA would be turned on him. Not even the Director would be able to protect him from that. Why had he done it? Partly, he was sick of being at the Agency’s beck and call-it was nearly fifteen years since he’d been caught in its tentacles, and he’d had enough. But that wasn’t all. There was something about this case, about the whole vicious conspiracy centered on Heinz Rothmann, that he couldn’t stomach. Not only had the President nearly lost his life and a member of his cabinet been killed, but everything to do with the extended case was pure poison. The Hitler’s Hitman killings showed that. Rothmann’s Nazism, combined with his cynical use of the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant, was bad enough, but the conditioning program developed by his sister was the clincher-it had attracted big business, international investors and the CIA, and it had enabled him to place his people in law enforcement and the armed forces. If someone didn’t put a stop to things now, the entire structure of government would be irreparably damaged.

That someone had to be Peter Sebastian.

He sat on the bench with his head bowed, thinking of his kids-his wife had long since written him off. Astrid and Roy were at college and had almost flown the nest. Would they remember him? Would they be proud of what he’d done? Most likely there would be a cover-up; perhaps he would even be implicated by people who were much better at the game than he was. He would be quickly forgotten by everyone who had known him, an embarrassment, one of the bad apples. Who did he think he was kidding with this pathetic act of disobedience?

Sebastian told himself to get a grip. It wasn’t so bad. The Director was in on what he was doing; the Director had sanctioned his actions, despite the fact that he hadn’t told him of the English knight’s arrest until after it had happened. There was still room for honorable people in the Bureau, even if his previous assistant had turned out to be one of Rothmann’s brainwashed automatons. But had he made a terminal mistake in using Matt Wells? Would the conditioning he’d undergone turn out to be deeper and more resistant than the scientists thought? If that was the case, Rothmann would reclaim him and Sebastian’s strategy to trap him would be turned on its head. Given that Wells and his bodyguard had disappeared, Sebastian was prepared for the worst.

Arthur Bimsdale came down the corridor, carrying a tray piled high with packages of sandwiches and paper cups.

‘Ham without mustard on the left, sir,’ he said, bending toward his boss. ‘Your coffee’s next to it.’ He straightened up. ‘I’ll give the prisoner his.’

Sebastian nodded, unwrapping his sandwich. The last thing he felt like doing was eating, but his stomach was an acid bath that needed something to work on. He managed half of it, while Bimsdale wolfed his down in under a minute.

‘Here,’ Sebastian said, handing over the remainder of his. ‘You’re obviously still growing.’

‘I’m excited, sir,’ Bimsdale said, with a smile. ‘We’re about to break the case.’

They went back into the interview room. Sir Andrew Frogget hadn’t touched his sandwich, but his coffee cup was empty. He was sitting straighter than he had been and had folded his hands. Sebastian didn’t like the look of that.

‘Gentlemen,’ the investment banker said. ‘I’ve had a change of heart. I’m afraid our conversation is at an end.’

Then he gave a strained smile, flinched as if he’d stepped on a live cable and pitched forward onto the table.

Sebastian felt for a pulse. There was none.

The dog hit me like a demolition ball. I was almost knocked backward, the creature’s jaws going for my throat, but I had managed to brace myself just enough. I also managed to get my bound hands in between, in the process detaching the gag. After a few seconds’ wrangling, the dog went after what it thought was an easier target-Sara. She brought her pistol to bear, but was slammed to the ground on her back before she could fire, the weapon dropping out of her grip. She landed on top of the gun and unable to reach it. I scrambled over the dusty ground and opened my arms to get my roped wrists round the animal’s neck. I managed to exert enough pressure to pull its head away from Sara.

‘Heel, Caesar!’ came a commanding voice. ‘Heel!’

The dog slipped its head out from my hamstrung grip and headed for its master. Before Sara or I could move, we were surrounded by men in olive drab fatigues and caps, carrying assault rifles that were all pointed at us.

‘Have you finished?’ came a harsh voice.

I looked round and was hit on the side of the face. A heavily built man in the same uniform, but with insignia on his headgear, raised a short stick.

‘You want some more?’

‘No, thanks.’

That got me a second blow, on the other side of my face.

‘You learned to keep it shut now?’

I nodded. Even without my hands tied, I’d have struggled to handle him. He was carrying a lot of weight and most of it seemed to be muscle.

‘How about you, bitch?’

Sara had been grabbed by a couple of gorillas. She kept quiet, having presumably decided against having her features rearranged again.

‘Get them inside,’ the big man ordered.

We were halfdragged, halfwalked toward a high fence with razor wire all over the top of it. A gate as wide as the largest truck was opened and we went through. There were more armed men around. Now that we were out of the spotlight, I made out a series of low buildings. There was no sign of Apollyon’s pickup.

‘Take the woman to block 3,’ the big man commanded. ‘The smart-ass is coming with me.’

I glanced at Sara as she was led away, my eyes meeting hers for an instant. She looked strangely relieved, as if she’d reached the end of a long journey. She was probably just conserving her strength and planning how to escape. As I was taken to another of the buildings, it struck me that I had completed a circular journey of sorts, too-from Rothmann’s fortified camp in Maine, to the FBI facility in Ohio, to this stronghold in Texas. That realization wasn’t exactly uplifting, though I had managed to get out of the two previous places, even if the cost had been high-I had a flash of Karen holding our son, but they quickly faded from view. The question was, who was in charge of this camp? I hadn’t seen any signs or other means of identification.

A wooden sliding door was opened and we went inside. A long corridor stretched ahead, with doors on either side. There were letters and numbers on them, but no other features. There was a musty smell, a mixture of sweat and something oily, maybe lubricant. The floor was bare concrete. Much more basic than the Maine camp, it reminded me of the army’s facility in Ohio. Was that what this was, a military installation? The insignia on the big guy’s cap didn’t look like any I’d ever seen before. There was a human figure with what looked like a bear’s jaws over its head and a snake in each hand. That made me think of something, but my memory declined to oblige.

Another door was opened, this one on hinges, and I was pushed inside. The room was empty apart from a concrete bed on the wall. The big man and two guards followed me in, one of the latter dragging a chair. The dog called Caesar remained outside, I was glad to see.

‘Sit down.’ The boss man parked his ass on the chair he was handed.

I sat on the bed and held out my hands. ‘Could you cut this rope, please?’ I said. I reckoned that asking for help was a way of acknowledging the power he exerted over me, as well as potentially saving my wrists from further abrasion.

He thought about that, and then motioned one of the other men forward. ‘Do as he says.’ He grinned. ‘After all, he ain’t going anywhere.’

His sidekicks laughed in a way that didn’t strike me as military. I thought of the militia Rothmann had set up, the North American National Revival, aka the North American Nazi Revival. These men weren’t wearing its insignia, but were they in a militia like it?

‘Okay, my man,’ the big chief said, ‘you wanna tell me what you were doing at my front fence?’

Now my wrists were free, I was no longer inclined to be polite. ‘You wanna tell me what you were doing setting a vicious animal on us?’

He laughed. ‘We got ourselves a live one,’ he said, grinning at the guards. ‘Won’t do you any good, son.’

‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with. The FBI’s got me under surveillance.’ That seemed as good a way as any of wiping the grin off his face, avoiding the detail that I was actually working for the Bureau.

All three of them burst out laughing.

‘The F-B-I,’ the big guy said, emphasizing each letter. ‘What’s that? The Fucking Bad Indians? Ain’t no Indians down here no more.’

More laughter.

‘And we sure don’t got no Federal Bureau of Investigations.’

That killed them. I had entered a world where national institutions had as much clout as a drunken prize-fighter. Then things took an even sharper turn for the worse. The door opened and the assassin who called himself Apollyon walked in.

The big man stood up and looked at the bearded man uncertainly. He had changed into olive drab fatigues, but he wasn’t wearing a cap. Hanging from his belt were a combat knife in a scabbard and a pistol in a holster.

‘You can go,’ Apollyon said dismissively.

‘You sure you’ll be-’

The assassin cut the big guy off with a blunt ‘yes.’ Then he planted a gleaming boot on the chair and leaned toward me.

‘You’re Matthew John Wells and you’re working for Peter Sebastian at the FBI.’

He had me there. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘Okay, how about this? Your chances of getting out of here alive are so small that a microscope wouldn’t spot them.’

I let that go. He was obviously immune to displays of bravado.

‘But there is a way you can improve them.’ He suddenly didn’t look as pleased with himself and I wondered if he was obeying orders. ‘Tell me everything you know about the blonde bitch who killed my sister.’

I thought about that, but not for long. I didn’t owe Sara a thing-on the contrary, she had killed my best friend and I’d been looking for a way to dispose of her for a long time. Besides, I was a crime novelist. I was good at making things up.

‘All right,’ I said submissively. ‘Could I have some water first?’

He went to the door and gave the order. I ran through my options quickly. If I played this right, I might get out alive. I might even give Sebastian the time to track me down. In the worst-case scenario, I’d take the Soul Collector and all the other scumbags down with me. Then it struck me. How did Rothmann fit into this setup? Had Apollyon already dealt with him as a heretic, or did the Nazi have some tie to the militia and the camp?

The bearded man handed me a warm bottle of water. I drank from it and then started to spin my tale.

The Soul Collector was in a confined room with only a concrete bed on the wall. She had been punched several times in the face and all her clothes had been ripped off. The men in fatigues had laughed at her and then left. Now she was huddled in the corner opposite the door, legs drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped around them. Was this how it was going to end? With sexual humiliation and a sordid, unreported death? She’d have struggled more, invited a beating that deprived her of consciousness, but her back had become a sea of agony. When the men saw the withered breasts and skinny frame that she had hidden beneath extra layers of clothing, they had realized how pathetic she was. In other circumstances that could have given her an advantage, but she was so exhausted by the events at the compound and the long drive, as well as the constant pretence to Matt that she was well, that she couldn’t imagine landing a blow that was anywhere near lethal, for all her experience and training. For the first time in years, she felt the cold grip of fear spread throughout her body, as if it was an active part of the cancer itself.

She thought about her ex-lover. He had changed enormously. When she had known him, Matt had been bitter-his marriage had ended, his writing career had crashed, and he’d had to give up his precious rugby because of his bad knee. Her brother, the White Devil, had fed off that bitterness, but in doing so he had inadvertently unleashed a stronger, more self-reliant part of Matt’s character, which his subsequent experiences with Rothmann had evidently brought to the fore. She had never known him like that, though she had realized how formidable an opponent he had become when she tried to eliminate him in London. He had nearly brought her to her knees then, and she had never returned to her home country.

And now, he was even more driven. The deaths of his lover and son had added another dimension to his profile, that of the justified avenger. She was sure he would punish Rothmann for what the conditioning process had done. The last vestiges of British reserve had been burned away.

Then it struck her that she would be a victim of that change, too. There was something cold and calculating in his eyes every time he looked at her. Certainly he had sworn to revenge himself on her, as well.

Sara looked around the vacant cell and blinked hard as another wave of pain dashed over her. Maybe this was the beginning of the final phase the doctor had talked about, not that she had allowed herself to pay attention, so convinced had she been that he was wrong. Maybe she would die before they could tear the life from her piece by piece. She shook her head. Only someone who had faith in some benevolent god or kind fate would expect that kind of ending. She had seen too many people die, often at her own hand, to imagine that death was anything but miserable suffering.

Unless Matt could save her. It seemed ridiculous to hope for salvation from the man she had betrayed and hounded, but she had seen something else in her former lover’s eyes during the drive across East Texas. He still had feelings for her, even if they were compromised by what she had done. He still saw her as a human being, rather than the nameless and faceless killer she had carefully constructed. Yes, Matt would step in before they came for her. Matt would get her out.

Sara let out a sob, even though the pain had been reduced in intensity in the recent minutes. She was remembering what she had been with Matt in London, before she had walked willingly into a life of blood. They had something, but she destroyed it. She would have given anything to have it back.