The nameless dead

Three

I came round in the infirmary, my head pounding from the drugs that had been pumped into my system.

‘Ah, the return of the prodigal,’ said Dr. Rivers, checking a monitor.

‘Return of the guinea pig, more like,’ I mumbled, trying to reach for the glass of water on the commode and finding that, as usual, my arms and legs had been secured.

‘Come, come, Mr. Wells. You fought that trigger very successfully.’

‘Didn’t seem that way to me.’ I licked my dry lips. ‘When are you going to stop using that knockout gas? It isn’t as if I can escape.’

He gave me a reproachful look. ‘It isn’t a question of escape. It’s essential that the trigger is rendered completely ineffectual, and that I can only do when you are unconscious.’

‘So, Doc, has the treatment worked this time?’

‘Let’s see,’ he said drily. ‘Ready?’

I took a deep breath and dropped into the defense zone I had learnt.

‘Fontane.’

I felt a momentary buzz, but nothing more. ‘Okay, you can unbuckle me.’

Rivers shook his head. ‘You know the protocol, Mr. Wells. We wait for ten minutes in case of-’

‘Delayed reaction,’ I said, closing my eyes. This was always the dullest part of the procedure. ‘What does Fontane mean?’ I asked, to pass the time.

‘Who rather than what,’ the doctor replied. ‘Theodore Fontane was a major nineteenth-century German novelist.’

‘Never heard of him,’ I muttered, mildly embarrassed by my ignorance. Even though I’d studied English literature at college, my knowledge of foreign writers was negligible. Being a crime writer didn’t help. I spent most of my reading time on the competition, and not much of it was translated from German. ‘So did the Nazis approve of this Fontane?’

Rivers shrugged. ‘I rather doubt it. He was some kind of early Modernist-too refined for them, I imagine.’

‘Oh, I get it. A double bluff by the Rothmanns.’

He nodded. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’

An earlier trigger had been ‘von Stauffenberg,’ the man behind the bomb plot that nearly cost Hitler his life in 1944. The Rothmanns were cunning as hell. They had no qualms about using words abominable to the Nazis.

When the ten minutes were up, Dr. Rivers called in an orderly. I was released from my bonds, the big man remaining in the room while the scientist finished writing up his notes.

‘All right, Mr. Wells, that’s it for today.’

‘How did I do, Doc?’ I asked, rubbing my ankles.

Rivers peered at me though the thick lenses of his glasses. ‘A perfectly adequate response,’ he said. ‘You still cannot control the post-traumatic rage that being confined here has exacerbated, but that is within the parameters. It would be interesting to monitor your reactions in the open, but I rather doubt Mr. Sebastian would sanction that.’

I felt another flare of anger when I heard the FBI man’s name. ‘Maybe in five years,’ I said, heading for the door.

The gorilla came with me as far as our rooms. Despite the ten-minute delay precaution, Rivers and his team would be watching me carefully over the coming hours, just in case. Such a lengthy response time had happened once before. I had broken my fingernails on the window locks trying to get out. Afterward, I was thankful I hadn’t hurt Karen-she managed to take refuge in the closet and I was eventually restrained by a quartet of soldiers in body armor. It was possible that I had been programmed not to injure another Rothmann subject, as Karen had been, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Her own reactions to triggers had been less overtly aggressive and she became even more docile as the pregnancy advanced.

Peter Sebastian was the scumbag responsible for our continued incarceration. Although he knew that, without me, the Rothmann conspiracy would have been even more devastating for the U.S., he wouldn’t cut us any slack. He had visited the camp once a week, though it was nearly ten days since we’d last seen him, always pretending he was our friend because he was a law enforcement colleague of Karen’s. I knew better. Dr. Rivers had recommended we be given access to internet and television, arguing that cutting us off from the world was no longer beneficial to our treatment. Sebastian had rejected that and we were going stir-crazy-especially Karen, who wasn’t able to make as much use of the outdoor facilities as I was. Of course, Sebastian might have been taking orders from the justice secretary or even the White House, but in any event he was definitely the scheming type and was probably using us to further his career.

Still, I was pretty good at scheming myself. If that was the way he wanted to play the game, I would be happy to take him on.

The killer called Abaddon-according to the Book of Revelation, ‘the angel of the bottomless pit’-was drinking a latte in a cafe near Faneuil Hall, central Boston. It was five in the afternoon and the winter gloom was interspersed with Christmas lights and the glare from shops whose owners anxiously awaited potential customers. The newspapers were full of stories about unemployment, Chapter Eleven filings and bankers’ bonuses. The assassin’s funds were mostly in offshore accounts, so the state of the economy was of minimal interest.

Coverage of the two murders so far had been disappointing. The authorities were keeping quiet about the Nazi angle and only a couple of writers, both online bloggers, had made much of the fact that the victims were both supporters of liberal causes. Laurie Simpson, the Greenwich Village resident, had been acclaimed as ‘a tireless worker for human rights and social justice’ by one of the geeks, while the other had been full of compliments for the Detroit radio host Sterling Anson, saying that he’d brought numerous hate groups and racist factions to the attention of the authorities.

The other element missing from reports were the details of how the victims had been dispatched and disfigured. Abaddon wasn’t surprised by that, though the people picking up the tab were apparently unhappy. Earlier that day there had been a message from the assassin’s broker on the secure bulletin board they used. Double the money was on offer if the next victim was displayed in a public place. Abaddon had agreed, but needed an extra couple of days to come up with a plan.

There were some favorable aspects about the target. Rhoda Rabinovich was even smaller than Sterling Anson. According to her medical records, she weighed only ninety-four pounds and was less than five feet two inches in height. On the other hand, she worked for a Massachusetts state senator, a Democrat with heavy support from the Jewish community, and she was hardly ever on her own, despite the fact she was single and lived alone. However, the briefing had given some help and Abaddon had been careful to research the locations and work up a convincing appearance.

The target had an office in a block near City Hall and she was always there in the early evenings on weekdays. Abaddon, unconcerned about witnesses because of the disguise, headed over there without delay. The black leather briefcase wasn’t just a stage prop. Inside it were a combat knife, rope and other equipment. Apart from the building’s security team, there was no one guarding Ms. Rabinovich. The other office staff would have left by now and all the assassin had to worry about was voters-they would be more interested in their Christmas shopping, even if they spent less than usual, than in bellyaching to the senatorial aide. Nodding at the uniformed man in the entrance hall, Abaddon took the elevator to the fifth floor, two below the target’s office. After checking the vicinity-a young woman carrying files hurried past without even raising her eyes-the assassin went up the stairs and looked through the glass in the fire door on the seventh floor. No one passed in the corridor beyond.

Abaddon made it to Rhoda Rabinovich’s office without encountering anyone. The outer door was unlocked and the receptionist’s desk was tidy. The assassin went up to the inner door and listened intently. There were no sounds at all from within. Patting the Glock 17 semiautomatic pistol in the belt holding up gray suit pants, Abaddon knocked and entered.

A woman in a white blouse sat behind a large desk, head resting on her crossed arms.

Abaddon coughed quietly when Rhoda Rabinovich didn’t move. That had no effect.

‘Excuse me?’ the killer tried. ‘Ms. Rabinovich?’

This time, the woman raised her head, but it was a slow process that seemed to take a huge amount of energy. ‘What…what is it?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Abaddon said, smiling widely. ‘Are you unwell?’

‘Am I…’ Rhoda Rabinovich broke off and let out a shrill laugh. ‘Oh, no, I’m just fine. I’m…’ The words stopped and were replaced by a long, low cry that seemed to contain all the pain in the world.

‘Can I help?’ Abaddon asked, feeling unusually uncomfortable.

‘Oh, I don’t think so. I…’

The killer watched as the target leaned forward again onto her arms, her weeping partially smothered. But the head, with its wreath of lustrous black curls, came back up before any advantage could be taken.

‘You see…’ the woman said, wiping her forearm across her eyes and smearing makeup onto the fabric. ‘You see, the senator…the senator has decided that I am too old for him. That little…little bitch who only left Vassar last year is much more to his taste.’ She laughed bitterly, then choked and started crying again.

Abaddon knew from the briefing that Rhoda Rabinovich was thirty-six, which was hardly old. She also had a forty-inch bust and lips that must have done a lot to keep her employer’s chin up over the years. None of which was relevant right now.

Ms. Rabinovich watched unperturbed as the killer stepped closer.

‘I like…I like your mustache, young man,’ she said, with an attempt at levity. ‘Are you a fan of Groucho Marx?’

Abaddon stopped at the desk, right hand on the Glock’s grip inside the suit jacket. ‘No, I’m not, lady. I’m a fan of Joseph Stalin.’

The woman’s hands flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, that…that will never do. Democrats abhor dictators.’ She grabbed a paper cup and swallowed a mouthful of the contents. ‘I’m sorry, would you like some? It’s vodka and…and orange.’

‘No, thanks,’ Abaddon said, leaning forward.

‘But it…it doesn’t do anything,’ Rhoda Rabinovich said. ‘It’s useless. It’s…it’s over.’ Then she stood up, her hands scrabbling in the desk drawer.

The killer watched in astonishment as the woman pulled out what looked like a novelty paper knife and thrust it deep into her chest.

‘That fucker…’ she gasped. ‘He brought…me this piece of…shit back from…Spain.’ Her eyes widened and she fell forward on the desk with a crash.

Abaddon was surprised, but not enough to forget what was to be done. The window frame looked secure, and the desk would be a good counterweight. Going back to the briefcase, the killer took out a black spray can, then pulled the painting of autumn in New England from the wall opposite the windows and set to work. It wasn’t long before the shape of a black cross with the equal sides narrowing toward the center appeared on the wall, the white paint providing good contrast. Using a second can, this one red, Abaddon added the words Mein and Kampf on either side of the Iron Cross. Then the killer stripped Rhoda Rabinovich of all her clothes, leaving the knife embedded between her remarkable breasts, and wrote the required words with a red indelible marker pen, the first on her belly and the second on her back.

After putting the spray cans and pen back in the briefcase, Abaddon tied one end of the rope from the briefcase tightly around her neck and the other to the desk leg. The precalculated length seemed to be right. The locks on the windows were easy to disengage. Cold air blew in from the Atlantic. The killer took a shorter piece of rope and attached it to the handle of the sliding window, then lifted Rhoda Rabinovich up to the ledge and stood her against the vertical part of the frame. Her high heels remained on the floor. Then Abaddon took out the combat knife and ran the blade across the rope-a cut had been made previously, but it felt like the victim was even lighter than the briefing had said. Perhaps she had lost weight because of how the faithless senator had treated her. Such is troubled love.

Leaving the office lights on, Abaddon stood at the door listening, and then unlocked it, pistol at the ready. There was no one around. The assassin opened the door beyond the receptionist’s desk and dropped the victim’s clothes in the toilet. After exiting the office, it took just over a minute to go down the stairs and exit the building, the Glock out of sight. Abaddon was near City Hall when the first scream rang out.

The killer turned, suppressing a smile. This was working out even better than expected. A woman in the square had noticed the naked figure in the window even before Rhoda Rabinovich fell. The only question now was, would her head stay on or not? Either way was acceptable to the killer’s employers.

More screams echoed around the concrete walls, and suddenly they went up in pitch. Heading away, Abaddon glanced back and saw the senator’s aide and former lover plummet earthward after the partially severed cord gave way. Then the carefully measured length of thicker rope broke her fall. Her head stayed attached to the rest of her body, which swung slowly from side to side like a grotesque pendulum. There was no way the details of this murder would be kept from the media.

The assassin walked swiftly on, smiling under the bristling mustache, as the clocks of Boston’s many churches started to sound the hour.

Never send to know for whom the bell tolls, she thought, piqued that the victim had done the best part of the job.