The nameless dead

Thirty-Seven

Rudi Crane was across the conference hall. He had been watching the FBI Director’s diplomatic activities and wondering what the former admiral was doing. He knew him, of course-had known him when he was still in the Navy and Hercules Solutions was nothing more than a small operator trying to muscle into the private security business. There had been rumors that the admiral was a CIA man, but that seemed unlikely, given his present position. When the group of statesman became a herd of confused sheep, with the Englishman Matt Wells running around like a sheepdog, Crane had got even more curious. Then fighting broke out and he decided to keep his distance, signaling the retreat to his executives. He didn’t want the company to be part of any unpleasantness, an approach subsequently justified by the muffled explosion which brought chaos to the entire area.

Retiring to the entrance hall, where no one was being allowed in or out, Rudi Crane thought about what he had witnessed. Had someone made an attempt on the FBI Director’s life? Certainly, Wells had been behaving strangely. Could one of the foreigners have brought explosives into the UN’s neutral domain?

The only thing to be said for the episode was that it could be spun for the good of security companies like his. If Hercules Solutions had been handling matters, no one would have been allowed to smuggle explosives in. It struck him that the whole thing might be a welcome distraction from what had gone on in Texas. Although there was nothing to tie H.S. with the camp down there, he didn’t like loose ends. The FBI would be working on the bodies of the assassins he had hired and, no doubt, their identities would eventually be uncovered. There was no link to him, but he would have preferred a tidier ending to his strategy of disrupting Jack Thomson’s activities and gaining possession of the conditioning program. Who knew what had happened to that? He suspected his former collaborator would have made sure law enforcement wouldn’t find it. There would be other government agencies after it, as well.

He took a seat in the entrance hall and watched as media people ran past, cameras and hairstyles wobbling. On reflection, he didn’t regret the so-called Hitler’s Hitman killings-the name had been suggested off the record to a journalist by one of his PR people. The assassin had followed their instructions and Thomson had been duly pressured. The unknown quantity had been Matt Wells. He had never expected the FBI to use a murder suspect in an investigation, especially not one with a grudge. Had the Director known about that? The fact that the lead investigator, Peter Sebastian, had been found dead was, at the very least, convenient for some people.

No, he would go back to the apartment and pray for a better day tomorrow. He should have known that cuddling up to politicians would be a waste of time. Hard-hearted businessmen were much easier to deal with.

Which reminded him: he needed to sign off on that stewardess’s promotion-what was her name again? She had the soul of a sinner, but her mouth was a miracle.

To my surprise, I came round quickly. I was still lying on top of the Director and the same besuited legs, both vertical and horizontal, were in my close vicinity. There was a foul smell in the air and Arthur Bimsdale’s hair had been scorched. Otherwise, he seemed okay. He sat up as I studied him, my eyes stinging, and looked toward me.

‘Are you all right?’ His voice sounded tinny.

‘Yeah.’ My own voice was weird. I was probably lucky I could hear anything.

‘What about the Director?’

I put my hands on either side of the old man’s head and levered myself off him. His face and hair had turned black in the blast, most of which had been directed back at him when I crashed into him.

‘Chemical bomb,’ Bimsdale said redundantly. ‘The proportions must have been slightly off. We were lucky.’

‘He wasn’t.’

The Director’s blue eyes were wide open, the whites crisscrossed by broken blood vessels. A piece of sharp plastic from one of the containers had penetrated his throat. Now I was standing, I realized that the clothing on the upper part of my body was drenched in arterial blood. People all around were gasping and raising their hands to their mouths.

I took off my jacket and accepted a blanket from a paramedic.

‘What happened to you?’ Bimsdale asked.

‘Trigger,’ I said, in a low voice. ‘I fought it off.’

‘Good for you. And the Director?’

I stepped aside to allow the paramedics to attend to the dead man. ‘Something similar, I’d guess. He spoke the word that nailed me.’ I thought back to what the Director had come out with as I overpowered him. ‘They’ll miss you.’ What had he meant? The people of the world? My friends?

The next three hours were a tedious succession of statements to various law enforcement agencies-UN, NYPD and others-and a trip to hospital for a check-up. I was given the all clear, though I was to see a doctor if my hearing didn’t improve within a week. I had numerous aches and pain across my body, the result of my fights with Bimsdale and others before the explosion, but none of them were important. When I was escorted out of the hospital by Special Agent Simonsen and his sidekicks, a battery of camera lights flashed on and the vultures let loose their questions-‘How does it feel to be a hero?’, ‘Was the FBI Director a North Korean agent?’ and ‘Are you going to write a book about this?’ were three of them. A headache had settled over my ravaged brain, so I kept quiet. That only made them more interested.

‘Do you want to freshen up?’ Simonsen asked.

I nodded.

‘Back to the hotel then.’ He led me to a waiting car.

‘Jesus,’ he said, as we were driven away. ‘Imagine if the Director had managed to take out the cream of the Russian and Chinese governments.’

‘Don’t forget the President of Europe.’

‘Oh, yeah, he was there, too. Good moves, my friend. You ever played gridiron?’

‘Rugby league.’

‘What’s that?’

I waved a hand feebly and sat back. The buildings of New York moved by, the rain still teeming down. Was that really it, the end of the affair? I felt a wave of exhaustion crash over me, which was hardly surprising, considering my physical and mental exertions and the lack of sleep recently. But that wasn’t the whole story. While I’d been on Rothmann’s tail and fighting through the Hades complex, even when I’d been with the Director, I’d been able to keep the ones I’d lost at the back of my mind. I couldn’t do so anymore. I could see them again, clearer than ever, Karen holding our son and smiling sadly as they hovered forever out of reach. Was this what the rest of my life was going to be? The prospect nearly made me jump out of the car.

‘Are you okay?’ Simonsen asked.

I raised a hand again, unable to speak. My eyes filled with tears. At first I thought I could pass that off as a result of the explosion, but then I gave up. I wasn’t going to be able to hide what had happened to Karen and the baby anymore. Well, maybe a bit longer-Simonsen was a nice enough guy, but I didn’t feel like opening up to him, especially with another agent in the front seat.

‘Home away from home,’ Simonsen said, as we approached the hotel reception. I had only just realized that the Chrysler Building was down the street and was trying to get a look at it. The rain and mist cut off the upper part of glass and steel tower.

Simonsen came with me to the thirty-second floor. ‘I’ll be outside,’ he said, with a tentative smile.

‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘Acting Director’s orders. You’re a celebrity now.’

I tried to raise an eyebrow, but that hurt. ‘I presume the press conference isn’t going ahead tonight.’

‘Not the one the admiral set up. But stand by for one about today’s fun and games.’

‘Have I got a choice?’

He laughed. ‘Sure. You’re not one of us.’

‘You got that right.’ I opened the door and went inside, pulling the blanket from around my shoulders and dropping it on the floor. Then I looked up and saw them.

Karen and our son were framed by the window and behind it was the top half of the Chrysler Building, pointing to the sky like a rocket on the launch pad.

I fainted.

I came round for the second time that day. This time I was lying on a carpeted floor rather than a dead body. Two women were on their knees beside me. One of them was Special Agent Julie Simms, Peter Sebastian’s sidekick from the Illinois camp, and she looked guilty as sin. The other was Karen.

‘Have I died?’

‘And gone to heaven,’ Karen said.

‘The other place, more like. I’ve already been there.’ I got myself into a sitting position, aided by the FBI agent. Karen was holding the baby on her lap.

‘Magnus,’ I said, his name finally coming back to me.

‘Magnus Oliver Wells,’ she confirmed.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again. They were still there.

‘How did…’ My voice broke and my eyes filled with tears. This was getting to be a habit.

‘Shh,’ Karen said, kissing me on the forehead. ‘Would you like to hold him?’

Suddenly that was the thing I most wanted to do in the world. I let her place him in my hands and then lifted him up. He was awake, green eyes wide and fixed on mine. He had a lot of brown hair.

‘Magnus,’ I said softly, kissing his forehead in turn. ‘I’m…I’m your daddy.’

I heard Karen sob and I don’t think Julie Simms was far off joining her. I held my son close and breathed in his priceless scent. He made a noise and I moved him outward again. He blinked and then smiled broadly. He was the only one whose eyes stayed dry.

After Karen had put her arms around me and we had communed silently as a family for the first time, I kissed her on the lips and pushed her back gently.

‘You look fantastic,’ I said, and she did.

‘We’ve been well looked after.’ She glanced at Special Agent Simms, who was now standing against the wall.

‘I’ll leave you,’ Simms said, picking up her jacket.

‘Oh, no you don’t,’ I ordered, provoking a squeal from Magnus. ‘Shit, sorry.’ I handed him to Karen, who laughed lightly.

‘Don’t blame Julie. She was only following orders.’

‘I’ve heard that somewhere before.’

‘Let her go,’ Karen said, opening her blouse and putting the baby to her breast. ‘I’ll tell you what happened.’

The door closed behind the special agent before I could say anything.

And so Karen told me-how she had given birth normally, the panic having been faked by the medical team and had then been given something to make her sleep. When she came round, she was told by Julie Simms that Peter Sebastian had taken me to Washington for pre-trial meetings. The TV and laptop were removed and she didn’t receive any newspapers, so she had no idea what happened in Maine and Texas. Then, a couple of days ago, they had been flown to Washington and lodged in a Bureau house for the night, before being brought up to NYC that morning.

I held Karen and Magnus while she was talking, my mind filled with conflicting images-the pair of them in the camp morgue, their skin cold and blue; the voices I had heard calling me, the visions of them disappearing down the road of no return. This was not the time to share that with her-maybe that time would never come. I looked at my son’s face again. He hadn’t been the baby in the morgue. They must have used some other poor mother’s dead child. What had Peter Sebastian done? I’d known he was devious, but I’d never have thought he could go so far to convince me of Rothmann’s guilt. Then I followed that line of thought. They’d been brought to New York this morning, after his death. There was only one person who could have ordered that-the dead Director. He and Sebastian must have been working together. Did Sebastian know about the former admiral’s conditioning? If he did, he had paid the price. But Sebastian hadn’t deserved that-for all he’d done, I still had some respect for him. Seeing Karen and our son had made me more compassionate, it seemed.

‘Matt?’ Karen said softly.

‘Sorry,’ I said, coming out of my reverie.

‘It doesn’t matter, whatever you’ve done. We’re together now.’ She kissed me. ‘Forever.’

She was thinking of Rothmann, assuming I’d killed him. I didn’t want to tell her about what had happened to him now, or what I’d done to Sara.

I heard voices outside the door, and then heavy footsteps going down the corridor. There was a knock on the door. I went over and looked through the spyhole.

‘Arthur,’ I said, after I’d opened up. ‘Your hair still looks like it’s standing to attention.’

He smiled. ‘I know-I can’t get it to lie-’ He broke off and stared at Karen in astonishment. Any thoughts I’d had of his being part of Sebastian’s scam disappeared. I gave him a rundown.

‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, walking over and examining the baby. ‘Well, congratulations. May I?’ He pulled an armchair toward the door and sat down.

‘Of course.’ I went over to Karen. ‘You know, I couldn’t have put this in a novel.’

He laughed. ‘No, you couldn’t.’

‘Drink?’ I asked, trying to locate the minibar. I needed one myself.

‘No, thanks. I’m not staying.’ He paused. ‘Neither are you.’

I turned toward him, my heart making a break for my mouth. To my left, Karen made a smothered, high-pitched noise. Arthur Bimsdale was screwing a silencer into the barrel of his service pistol.

‘What the-’

‘Be quiet,’ he ordered, waving me closer to Karen and Magnus with the weapon. ‘This won’t take long. When I said I couldn’t believe it, I meant I couldn’t believe that my esteemed former chief managed to conceal this stratagem from me.’

‘Exactly who are you working for?’

‘Ah, that would be too easy. What I will tell you is that I had no idea about the ex-Director’s allegiances, either.’

‘He and Sebastian were working together,’ I said, trying to buy us time. I’d seen Bimsdale in action and I knew I couldn’t reach him without being shot. Maybe I’d have to do that to save the others, but I was still looking for another option.

‘Apparently so,’ he agreed. ‘But now, I’m afraid, your usefulness has run its course, Mr. Wells. It will look like you lost your mind and tragically killed your family. Rothmann’s fault, of course.’

‘Let them go,’ I said, looking at Karen. ‘She won’t say anything. Will you?’

‘We’re not going anywhere,’ she retorted. ‘We’re staying together forever, remember?’

I glared at her, but she stayed where she was.

‘Touching,’ Bimsdale said, leveling the pistol at my chest. ‘And, indeed, correct.’

‘Why?’ I demanded. ‘There’s no reason to kill us.’

‘I don’t write the script,’ he said casually. ‘If you want my opinion, I’d say my principals feel you’re more trouble than you’re worth.’

‘Zig!’ I yelled. That was the call for a rugby move that I’d told Karen about when Sara had been after us in London-both of us made a rapid move to the left. That took us out of the pistol’s immediate line of fire. Taking advantage of the momentary surprise, I dived forward, trying to get my body as horizontal and low as possible. Bimsdale knew what he was doing, because sitting down made his position more secure.

There was a spit and I felt a tug on the back of my shirt. Then my head crashed into his midriff. The air blasted from his lungs and the pistol was flung out of his grip.

Bimsdale let out a yell. I looked round as I wrapped my arms round him. Karen must have hit him. But where was the baby? The agent slipped one of his arms from my grip and backhanded her in the face, sending her spinning backward. I shoved myself up his body and then stopped. Something very sharp was piercing my back.

‘It’s…a…switchblade,’ he said, panting as I increased pressure on his chest. ‘I…found it…on the Soul… Collector’s…body.’

‘Matt!’ Karen screamed.

‘Let…me go,’ Bimsdale gasped.

I kept shoving with my legs, the chair now up against the wall. The pain in my back became almost unbearable, but I wasn’t going to let him harm my family. Behind me, I could hear Magnus crying and Karen moaning.

‘You’re about…to die,’ Bimsdale said, pushing hard against me.

Then I saw his wooden pencil. The end with the eraser had been forced out of his jacket pocket. I remembered a story Dave Cummings had told me about an SAS friend, who had been in a similar situation. This was for Dave.

Ignoring the blinding pain, I moved my head toward Bimsdale’s jacket and got my teeth around the pencil. He realized what I was doing, but couldn’t do anything about it except continue sticking me with the knife. I pulled my head back as far as I could, and then smashed my loaded mouth forward.

There was a muffled shriek and I felt the pain in my back recede slightly. Karen was suddenly close, removing Bimsdale’s hand but leaving the blade in me-she’d been trained for such situations.

‘You’ll be all right, Matt, darling,’ she said, but the tone of her voice, as mournful as an autumn sunset, gave her away.

The last thing I saw was Arthur Bimsdale’s face. The pencil had gone through one of his nostrils and deep into his traitorous brain. The last thing I heard was the conjoined wail of my wife and son.