The nameless dead

Thirty-Six

Gordy Lister had been in a bar north of Malvern, Arkansas, when he saw the TV news. So the useless idiots who called the shots were gathering in the Big Apple to save the planet-kinda like hiring Jesse James to crack down on bank robbery or General Custer to improve relations with the Indians, screw that Native American bullshit. He drained his Bud and ordered another, thinking of the time not too long ago when he’d been a bigshot newspaper man and had drunk ultradry martinis every night. Thanks to his loony tunes ex-boss, that had all gone up in smoke. He’d been lucky to slip away from the scene in Texas. He’d dumped the sedan on the outskirts of Texarkana, shaved his head, bought a suit and tie, and rented a car using one of the credit cards and fake driver’s licenses he always carried. There would be more changes in his appearance and transport in the days to come.

He watched as the wide-eyed anchorwoman with her neatly sculpted hair and her glinting marble teeth turned to the economy. That was another thing he’d been screwed on-after the self-proclaimed Master had gone AWOL, all Gordy’s accounts had been blocked and he’d been reduced to stealing from the donations of the deluded faithful. Fortunately, the transfers he had made to the bank in Tahiti hadn’t been nailed, but they weren’t much use to him here. Fuck Jack Thomson. Fuck Heinz Rothmann. Fuck the Master. Shooting him was the best thing he’d ever done.

Familiar faces appeared on the screen above the bar and Lister paid attention.

What the-? The Director of the FBI was boasting about the Bureau’s success in tracking down the fugitive businessman Jack Thomson, the mastermind behind the massacre in Washington National Cathedral that had so nearly cost the President his life. He would be hosting a press conference after attending the climate change conference in New York tomorrow and details would be given there. In the meantime, he could say that the Hitler’s Hitman killer had been identified as a professional assassin, in part due to the sterling work of the English writer Matt Wells, who was no longer a suspect in the attack on the President.

Gordy Lister rocked back on his stool. That bastard. Wells was the main reason everything had turned to shit. If he hadn’t escaped from the camp in Maine and got to Rothmann, life would still have been peachy-his former boss’s plans to rip apart American society and bring back Nazism had been crazy, but he’d have been in a good position to make the most of them. The madman wouldn’t have got so obsessed with the Antichurch if he’d been able to stay in Washington and play Fuhrer.

Not only that: Wells had been involved with the blonde bitch who had killed Mikey. And now the fucker was going to be paraded in front of the cameras, modestly accepting the praises of the FBI Director? No way.

He ordered a shot of Wild Turkey and thought about the dead Nazi. Sure, the Kraut was as cracked as a mirror in an earthquake zone, but he’d been good to him-cool apartment, luxury cars, plenty of tight young snatch. The limey bastard Wells would tell the Feds all about Rothmann’s sidekick. Every law enforcement professional in the country would be looking out for Gordy Lister, no matter how many changes he made to the way he looked. Unless…

In the back pocket of his pants, he kept a small, leather-covered notebook.

He’d never been good at remembering numbers, but when he saw them written down he always knew what they were, meaning he didn’t have to add names or other identifying symbols. On page thirty-seven was a number that Rothmann had given him a couple of months back. His boss had given him to understand that the white-haired former admiral had been an early conditioning subject-apparently it hadn’t taken fully, though Rothmann still thought a certain trigger could provoke an ‘interesting’ response. All right-it was time to see what form that response might take.

Gordy went out into the parking lot and made the call. He recognized the respondent’s tones immediately and spoke the trigger, ‘Erfurt’-he’d never had any trouble remembering words. There was silence, and then the person said, ‘I am at your command.’

Gordy swallowed a laugh. This was a gas. ‘The United Nations Climate Change Conference,’ he said, impersonating his former boss as best he could. ‘Dispose of people antagonistic to our ideology.’ That was the kind of tortuous language Rothmann favored. ‘And dispose of Matt Wells after use.’ Then he passed on the necessary word and he cut the connection.

Now he felt even better. Killing the Master had left him with a small piece of guilt that might have grown in the future. Not anymore. Vengeance for the both of them was his! He got into the rental car and headed north. He could get a flight in St. Louis that would connect with others for destinations much farther to the west. Winter in the South Seas would be balmy, sexually stimulating and light on Feds. From there, the world was his oyster, clam and abalone.

‘Hello, Arthur. What are you doing here?’

Bimsdale gave me a searching look. ‘I could ask you the same question.’

‘Ask your boss,’ I replied, turning away. Maybe Sebastian’s former assistant had heard about the press conference and wanted to be part of it. Then I thought of his ex-boss. I was still unsure about what had really happened to him. And why would Bimsdale have broken off the investigation in Texas to come to New York?

The question slipped away as the Director led me toward the Russians, a couple of whom I recognized: a shifty specimen who had gone from the KGB to become energy minister and a tall guy with overgrown eyebrows who was reputed to be the richest oilman in the world. The FBI chief was being effusive in Russian. He then raised his hands, apparently asking them to stay where they were, and moved to the Chinese delegation. He didn’t know their language, but his arm and head movements were easy enough to interpret-he was herding them toward the Russians. Another man whose face I knew from the TV arrived: the President of the European Union. In the distance, I recognized Rudi Crane. He was surrounded by men in sharp suits, while he himself-ever the preacher, apparently-was wearing a simple black combo. It struck me that he would be ideally placed to cause trouble; according to the Hercules Solutions website, he had hundreds of ex-special forces operatives working for him. All the same, he looked pretty harmless, a soft smile on his lips.

And then things started to get strange. I experienced a couple of lightning flashes in my brain and heard a babble of voices, which was rapidly reduced to one, that of a ranting, high-pitched speaker in a language I couldn’t understand, but whose meaning was somehow apparent. We are surrounded by enemies…neighboring states that have been historically hostile toward us… Slavic subhumans who wish to trample us underfoot…yellow-skinned barbarians interested only in rape and plunder…we will crush them all…

I came back to myself, my fists clenched hard. What was that? Some remnant of Rothmann’s conditioning that had been prompted by the sight of the various ethnic groups? I stepped closer and watched the delegates as they shook hands, reluctantly at first and then with increasing enthusiasm. The Director looked gratified, not least when the secretary of state appeared, wearing the expression of someone whose thunder has been well and truly stolen. And then the former admiral turned to me, beckoning me closer. He bent forward till his lips were only a few inches from my ear.

‘Keep them together and don’t allow anyone to interfere, Mr. Wells,’ he said, his voice steady but euphoric. ‘Chanak, I say. Chanak.’

The sentient part of me was immediately separated from my body, aware of the subtlety of the trigger but unable to resist it.

Chanak, a Turkish town that had played a strategically significant role during the Gallipoli campaign of the First World War, a campaign orchestrated by German commanders, resulting in the defeat of British Empire and French forces by the Ottoman Turks.

I watched as my body pushed the Russians and Chinese closer. Arthur Bimsdale remonstrated and I threw him several yards through the air. He came back at me, throwing me over his shoulder with a skillful judo move. I got to my feet, planted my elbow in another FBI man’s gut, and lowered my shoulder. I rammed Bimsdale into the group of shocked statesmen. Security personnel approached and I rendered them harmless with karate strikes, head butts and punches.

Then I saw Arthur Bimsdale shoving through the crowd, trying to get to the Director, whose hands were moving inside his jacket. Instantly I understood what he was doing. He must have brought the undetectable chemical components of a bomb through the security checks and was now mixing them. At the same time, he was shouting to the politicians in Russian and in English to stay close, and that he was in control of the situation. Some on the outside of the circle had broken away, but there were still over a dozen in close range.

I had been trying to get my conscious self into the protective headspace that Doctor Rivers and I had worked on, but without success. This trigger must have been buried deep, giving it greater power over my actions. I tried again and again to break free. I roamed around the statesmen, keeping them in a ring around the Director and fighting off anyone who tried to intervene.

And then Karen came to me. She rose up like a goddess, dressed in a long white robe. She was cradling our son in her arms and there was a tender smile on her lips. She looked at me, looked into my eyes, and I heard her voice. She spoke words of love that brooked no argument and I heard myself respond to them. Love beyond death…

In a blur of movement, I found myself back in my body and back in control. Now I was pulling the Russians and Chinese away, shouting at them to run. Ahead, I saw the Director look up, his eyes wide. Arthur Bimsdale was behind him, still struggling to get past the confused statesmen. I pushed myself between the Russian energy minister and the European President. The Director was right in front of me, his hands holding two white plastic bottles. One of them was almost empty. A beatific expression came over the old man’s face as he held it toward me.

What was he saying? Too late, I saw a wisp of smoke or fumes escape the container as I threw myself over him in the best smothering tackle I had ever made.

There was a flash and a bang, and I went speedily to another place.

‘You lose,’ he had been saying. ‘They’ll miss you.’