Deadly in New York (14 page)

She lifted the covers in silent agreement, and Hawker slipped beneath them, holding the woman's warm nakedness in his arms. She snuggled in close to him, whimpering softly. Hawker stroked her hair for a time, then felt himself drifting off into the gauzy world of sleep, exhausted.

He awoke suddenly in darkness, surprised to find his body aroused by something. The woman had turned off the overhead light. A lamp on the vanity bathed the room in a soft yellow glow. She was trembling terribly, as if with fever. Hawker would have thought her ill, were it not for the way her small hands were stroking him. He wondered how she had gotten his pants undone without waking him.

Noticing that he was awake, her hands bolted away from him. “I'm sorry,” she said, breathing heavily. “I had no right—”

Hawker cupped his hand behind her head and pulled her face to his, kissing her gently. “It's okay,” he whispered. “It feels nice.”

Her voice shook, as if she were about to cry again. “It's just that … that it's been so long since I've been with a man. I dreamed that we were … that we were making love. Maybe it was a way of erasing something so terrible with … with something good. I guess I started doing this in my sleep. You felt so strong that I didn't stop when I woke up.”

Hawker guided her hands back to him, then touched her hard nipples with his lips. “Neither of us is asleep now,” he said softly, then he kissed her again, harder, feeling her hips rise against his hand; groin soft and wet and wanting.

For the first time, she smiled as a giant shudder passed through her body. “I'm glad,” she whispered. “I'm glad you're awake. Now I can show you what I was dreaming. And, James?”

Hawker had kissed his way down her firm stomach, and now his lips had found the soft pubic thatch. She smelled warm and sweet. “Yes?” he said.

“James. I've thought about it. While you were sleeping, I thought about it. And I don't want to be here to face the police either. James—I don't know where you're going … but I want to go, too.” As Hawker lifted his head to speak, she pressed her index finger against his lips. “Not now,” she whispered. “Please, not now. Later, James.” As Hawker returned to what he had been doing, the woman moaned softly. “Much, much later.…”

twenty-two

Loughros Moor, Ireland

Hendricks nodded at the guard, then walked into the dun-colored mass of Gweebarra Maximum Security Prison.

The prison was a bleak fortress squat on a bluff above the gray sweep of the Atlantic. It was four stories high. Outside, the main wall was fenced by ten-foot-high chain-link and rolls of concertina wire. Between the main wall and each fence was a ten-meter killing area.

From the cells on the fourth floor of the penitentiary, inmates could see the craggy hills and the endless moor that rolled along the edge of the Atlantic, away from the prison.

Reggie Collins was on the fourth floor. He was in a ten-by-twelve cell with a shielded overhead light bulb, a metal cot, and an aluminum commode.

It had not been easy for Hendricks to arrange to see him. It had meant telephoning three of the most honored names in Great Britain and calling in some old and personal debts.

But he had done it. Now he had what he wanted: a personal interview with his old comrade, just the two of them, away from the prying electronic listening devices of the prison's visitors' room.

Hendricks followed the custodian through the maze of bars and electric gates to the cage that held the man who had been found guilty of treason and was rumored to be Hendricks's nemesis of old, the Druid.

Collins stood at the window of his little cell, staring out over the Atlantic. The custodian rattled his keys and turned the lock. “Collins—you've got a visitor,” he said in a bored monotone.

Reggie Collins turned slowly. His gaunt eyes seemed to have difficulty adjusting to the dimmer light. “Who … who is it?” he asked in a submissive, uncertain voice.

So shocked was he by the man's appearance that Hendricks couldn't answer for a moment. During the war, Collins had been the embodiment of all that was good and brave in Her Majesty's forces: tall, articulate, handsome. Now he was drawn and shriveled. His black hair had turned white, and his ruddy skin, gray. There was a palpable air of decay about the old British agent with whom Hendricks had once worked so closely.

“It's me, Reggie,” he said finally. “It's me, Halt Hendricks.”

“Hank?” the man asked, taking a step closer as the guard locked the door behind Hendricks. “My Lord, can it really be?” Collins's face slowly contorted into a mixed expression of pain and wild joy as he reached out and took Hendricks's hand and wrung it with emotion. “You don't know how I've dreamed of this moment, Halt. You have no idea! Through this whole bloody affair, during those endless interrogation sessions, throughout the trial—even
here
—I kept asking to see you. And now, by Godfrey, you're here!”

Collins's face was locked in a brave smile, but then the smile gradually collapsed into an anguished look as he began to cry. His whole body shuddered, and Hendricks did not back away as Collins leaned against him, bawling like a child.

Hendricks patted his shoulder tenderly. “It's okay, Reg,” he said. “Steel yourself, man. I had no idea what you were going through. They never tried to get in touch with me, or I would have come.”

Collins turned away in an effort to gain control of himself. Finally he rubbed his eyes and motioned for Hendricks to take a seat on the little cot. “I'm okay now, Hank. Bit embarrassing, that.” He sniffed and cleared his throat as he sat on the floor, his back against the concrete wall. “This has been such a bloody, rotten business. Thought it was quite the joke when the buggers came after me as a traitor.” He forced a laugh that couldn't hide his bitterness. “Called me the bloody
Druid!
Can you imagine?
Me?”
He looked anxiously at Hendricks. “But you can tell them the truth, Hank. Only you know the real truth. You know I was never a blasted Russian agent. You know that it was only a deep cover—”

“What happened to the records at MI-5, Reggie?” Hendricks interrupted. “Certainly they should have dug them out and presented them to the Assizes, considering the severity of the charges against you.”

Collins shook his head nervously. “No records, Hank.”

“But there
were
records, for God's sake—”

The old agent smacked a withered fist against his hand. “I know! But they were lost or stolen—probably the latter. At any rate, there were no records to be found.” A pitiable laugh slipped from his lips. “Rather funny, really. I was so careful to build a convincing cover in those days that it was my own cleverness which sent me here. Most of the evidence used against me was evidence I had planted during the war.” Collins cocked his head unexpectedly, as if listening to some distant sound.

“What is it, Reg? Do you hear something?”

Collins's eyes were abruptly clouded by a foggy, faraway look. “It's the bloody screaming, Halt,” he whispered after a moment. “The screaming. I can stand the cold water and the bad food and the roaches, but it tears at my insides when I hear those poor buggers being tortured.”

Hendricks listened carefully.

A cold thrill moved through him.

There were no screams.

There was only the hushed silence of the sea crashing onto the bluff outside.

Collins, quite obviously, had been pushed over the brink of his own endurance, pushed toward the dark chasm of insanity.

“Reggie,” Hendricks said gently. “I want you to listen to me. I'm going to get you out of here. You're going to be all right. But first, I need to know some things—things you know more about than anyone on earth.”

“Of course, Hank,” Collins said distantly, still preoccupied with the terrors of his own mind. “What do you want to know?”

Hendricks took off his derby and hunched closer to the shrunken man. “I want you to tell me about Martin Bormann, the man who was supposed to carry Hitler's legacy on to future generations. I remember your insisting after the war that Bormann was not dead.”

Reggie Collins's eyes seemed to clear momentarily. “Quite right,” he said. He rubbed thoughtfully at his ears before adding, “It's more than just speculation on my part. Bormann and his young aide had exacting plans—plans made, actually, by Hitler himself—to escape by plane. They were to leave Rechlin Airbase. The plane they were to use was a specially built Junker Three-ninety, which carried thirty thousand liters of fuel and had a cruising range of eighteen thousand kilometers. It could have taken them, quite easily, to Paraguay.”

“Or Nicaragua?”

“Of course.”

“What makes you think they got the chance to use it, Reggie?”

“It's rather simple, Halton. When the Russians finally got to Rechlin, the Junker was gone. Someone used it. And, as you know, neither the bodies of Bormann nor his aide have been found. It was not because the bodies were not sought, either. Bormann was such a sadistic little animal, the Russians had quite a thing about finding him. But I rather think Bormann's aide was even worse. A nasty bit of work, he was. A young rough named Fisterbaur.”

Hendricks shivered slightly. “
Fister
baur?”

“Yes. Bormann recruited him from the interrogation staff at Auschwitz.”

Now more than ever, Hendricks felt the urge to answer the unconscious summons that had called him to help his friend and employer, Jacob Hayes. He felt as if he should race immediately from Gweebarra Prison to Belfast and catch the first direct flight to Miami. If he hurried, he could possibly be landing in Grand Cayman in less than fourteen hours—only nine hours, counting the time difference. Instead, he took a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm. He said, “There's one more thing I would like to discuss, Reggie.”

Collins's head tilted again, as his own private terrors threatened once more to take control. But then he shook himself, forcing his attention on Hendricks. “Anything, Hank.” His smile was touchingly vulnerable. “We have no secrets from each other.”

“Yes, Reggie, that is true. And it must stay that way. Apparently, there was speculation that you were the Druid—the one Abwehr agent we were never able to find. Only two living people—you and I—could know for certain that you are
not
the Druid—”

“Wrong,” Collins cut in. “There are three people who know.
He
knows, Hank. The Druid knows. I have had plenty of time to think about why I was chosen as a scapegoat. And make no mistake about it, a scapegoat is exactly what I am. The reasons always point directly back to the man who, for so long, has been a question mark in both of our careers. Of course, any finger I might point now would be dismissed as the desperate ravings of a convicted traitor.” The man's gaunt eyes looked deep into Hendricks's eyes. “He knew I was a potential danger to him, and he found his way to destroy me, Halton. You should be forewarned that any interest in my case will make it necessary for him to destroy you.”

Hendricks's jaw tightened and his voice was cold. “He hasn't destroyed either one of us, Reg. Not yet.” He pulled out his pocket watch and checked it perfunctorily. “We have fifteen minutes left, Reggie, old horse and in those fifteen minutes you're going to tell me everything you know, everything you suspect about the Druid of modern days—and that includes keying me on some of the Druid ciphers you unraveled. And then, if that lovely jailer of yours is a little late, we'll get rooting on a plan to nail that bastard. Because we
are
going to nail him, Reg. The two of us will have a nice cup of tea on the son of a bitch's grave. That I promise you.”

Reggie Collins's eyes misted as he smiled for the first time in a very long while. “Thank you, Halton,” he said softly, fighting back the tears. “Thank you so much for giving me hope.…”

twenty-three

Grand Cayman

On the long commercial flights from New York to Miami, from Miami to Owen Roberts Airport on Grand Cayman, James Hawker wrestled with the uneasy feeling that he was too late.

When the beautiful Brigitte Mildemar's voracious sexual wanting was finally satisfied, then and only then did she remember that “some corporation in Chicago” had left a very important message for Hawker.

Hawker had immediately thrown back the covers and walked naked past the cooling corpse of the assassin to the phone.

The message was important all right. It was also confirmation that the strange foreboding Hawker had experienced was chillingly accurate.

One of Hayes's trusted secretaries enlarged on the details provided by Callis: Jacob was, indeed, missing and feared kidnapped—or worse. Traces of blood had been found in the bathroom of his island cottage. The blood matched Hayes's type. The Grand Cayman police force was investigating but had found nothing yet. Hayes's last communication to corporate headquarters consisted of a manila envelope.

At Hawker's insistence, the secretary read the contents to him. While the material could have been better understood by a business expert, Hawker deciphered enough to know that the reports contained serious and incriminating information on Fister Corporation.

After instructing the secretary to make copies of the financial data and lock the copies away in a variety of places for safekeeping, Hawker hung up and returned to the bedroom.

Brigitte had pulled a white T-shirt on that was not quite long enough to cover the smooth swell of hips and the burnished glow of pubic triangle. Her short blond hair was mussed with their lovemaking.

She was packing a suitcase, humming nervously.

Calmly Hawker walked over and began to unpack her bag.

“What … what are you doing?” she had stammered.

“You're not going,” he said easily.