Maps of Hell (32 page)

T
he lights of central Washington stretched out beneath the window of Karen Oaten’s suite in what she assumed was the highest and most luxurious hotel in the city. There was an FBI agent on guard duty outside and a team patrolling the building, but she was alone with her thoughts on an antique sofa, her legs drawn up beneath her.

So far, everything was going smoothly. The deputy director of the FBI had been taken aback by her insistence that she resume meetings immediately. He had assumed she would go straight to the hospital for a thorough checkup, but she assured him that would not be necessary and that she would arrange things herself with the British Embassy doctor.

After eating a late dinner from room service, Karen had taken a shower and settled down to review her case files. At her request, they had been brought over from FBI headquarters. The Gavin Burdett investigation would come to nothing now. She’d had a brief conversation with her boss in London. He told her that she would be all over the morning papers and that numerous journalists would want to interview her. She wasn’t planning on giving any of them access, at least not yet.

Sipping chamomile tea, Karen leaned back and took in the view again.

America, she thought, land of the free. Or rather, land of the corrupt, the pleasure obsessed and the spiritually vacant. Its people needed discipline, a new set of ideals, just as they did back in Americanized Europe. Now that her eyes had been opened, she knew there was another way.

Matt Wells’s face flickered before her, like that of a fading ghost. It had been amusing how difficult the supposedly hardened FBI men had found it to bring up his alleged crimes. She hadn’t been surprised when she’d first been told of them at the camp. Matt had shown signs in the past of unbridled fury and had trained himself well to become a murderer, even though he’d made out that he was only interested in self-defense. She hadn’t realized how close he’d come to stepping over the line throughout their relationship. Her disappearance must have made him leap into the abyss. He had certainly seen enough violent crime firsthand to be fatally tempted. The irony was unavoidable. After standing up to the worst the White Devil and the Soul Collector had thrown at him, he had become one of their number. Earlier tonight, she’d learned, he had been responsible for the death of yet another person and the wounding of several more. He wouldn’t be at liberty for long. It was just as well—her son would never know his father.

Karen didn’t feel tired, but she knew she should lie down. Although she was in perfect physical condition, her body needed attention because of the cargo she was carrying. The day that would soon be dawning was set to be the most momentous of her life: a new beginning for her and the whole world.

The last thing Karen did before she went to bed was to check her briefcase.

Everything was in order, including what she had brought on her person from the camp.

I found a taxi on a main road about half a mile from the house where I’d left Clem and the others, and directed the driver to Georgetown. There was blood on my clothing, but I’d taken off my jacket and turned it inside out, and was holding it over the other stains. I had Dana Maltravers’s, Clem’s and Versace’s guns under there, too. I was a walking armory, but I had the feeling I would need every round.

The news came on the radio and I asked the driver to turn up the volume. The top story was about Karen and how she’d appeared at a state troopers’ station near Buffalo. She was said to be unharmed and had been brought to Washington by FBI helicopter and jet. Deep down I’d never believed she had been the sacrificial victim, but I was relieved—enormously so—to have that confirmed. But I was also frustrated—I wanted to see her, I wanted to make sure that she was as well as she looked and that our son had not been adversely affected, but I had to stay free until I laid hands on Larry Thomson. Without him, I was a fugitive, a suspect for at least two of the occult killings and—if Clem and Versace didn’t come round—a suspect for the mayhem tonight. But the alternative was worse: as long as Thomson, or Rothmann as he’d been born, was free, Karen and I would never be safe—and neither would our son.

I got out of the cab on M Street and slipped into the back streets before crossing the bridge to Rosslyn. I stopped on the corner before my hotel and checked for surveillance. Nobody knew I was staying there, but I couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. After waiting for five minutes, I walked down the street and into the hotel. The night porter nodded at me with indifference as I went to the elevators. I had my hand on one of the pistols all the way to my room. This time, I needn’t have bothered.

After holding my head under the cold tap, I took Versace’s phone out of my pocket and clicked into Contacts. Assuming the entry “GL” was Gordy Lister, I called that number. It rang for a long time before he answered.

“Talk to me, whoever you are.”

“This is Matt Wells.”

There was a pause. “What d’you want?”

“Get this, asshole. Those twins you gave us attacked Detectives Pinker and Simmons, maybe fatally. If you want me to keep your name out of it, do exactly what I tell you.”

“Shit! All right, man. Shit!”

“Larry Thomson—I need to meet him before daybreak. He can name the place.”

“He…he won’t come alone.”

“I don’t care if he comes with a division of the SS. Fix it and call me back on this number. Oh, and Gordy?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell him I shot his sister. Dead.”

“What?” Lister’s voice was suddenly higher than a schoolboy’s.

“You heard me. I killed Irma Rothmann. And her daughter Dana’s badly hurt, too.”

“Jesus, man, he’s gonna rip your heart out.”

“You reckon? Just make the call.”

I broke the connection, my palms damp with sweat. Sounding tough on the phone was all very well. Now I had to work out a way to get Larry Thomson away from his bodyguards on his turf. Killing him would be easier, but that would mean sacrificing myself, and I had reasons to live now that Karen and the child she was carrying were safe. I needed to bring Thomson in if I was to have any chance of clearing my name. There was only one thing in my favor. He would be enraged by the news of his twin sister’s death. Unless he had a heart colder than the thickest glacier in Antarctica, that meant he’d be desperate to nail me. And desperation, as my friend Dave used to say, caused people to take their eye off the ball. Then again, Gwen Bonhoff was at large. She would be gunning for me, too, given that I’d shot her brother. If she showed up at the meet with Thomson, it really would be the O.K. Corral all over again.

Peter Sebastian was standing by Clem Simmons’s hospital bed. There were machines beeping and numerous tubes coming out of the detective, and he was conscious. Gerard Pinker was not; he was in intensive care.

“So you’re saying it was Matt Wells who shot this Irma Rothmann, as well as Dana Maltravers?” the FBI man asked, trying to keep the disbelief from his face.

“Yeah,” Simmons croaked. “Had to be. And the boy Randy. I don’t know what happened to his sister, Gwen.”

“There’s no sign of her. Randy’s in surgery.”

“How about Maltravers?”

“Took a bullet to the chest, but she’ll live.”

“You know your princess is dirty?”

Sebastian frowned. “So I’m beginning to understand. The twins, Randy and Gwen, you think they did the occult murders?”

Clem Simmons coughed and then winced. “Seems a distinct possibility.”

“What about Matt Wells’s prints at the scenes?”

“Think about it.”

After a few moments, the FBI man’s eyes widened. “Dana?”

“Who else?”

A stern-looking nurse bustled into the room. “You’ll have to leave now, sir. We’re going to do a CAT scan.”

“About time,” the detective said, with a slow grin.

The nurse’s expression slackened. “There’s been a run on the machines this evening. So much for law and order in this city.”

Sebastian leaned closer. “One more thing, Detective. Larry Thomson. Are you sure about him?”

Clem nodded, his eyes closing. “Oh, yeah. Woodbridge Holdings is a hotbed of fuckin’ Nazi…” Suddenly his head slumped to the side and one of the monitors sounded a continuous alarm.

Peter Sebastian was pushed out of the way by a doctor and watched as Clem Simmons’s bed was wheeled out of the room, nurses pulling the monitors alongside. Turning the pages of his notes, he shook his head. Karen Oaten had returned safely, but all hell had broken out. And the cherry on the cake was that Matt Wells hadn’t been the occult killer after all.

The FBI man heard the sound of his career crashing all around him. He needed to do some major ass-covering, both on his own account and on that of his secondary employers, the CIA—they would be very unhappy if the Agency’s protection of Nazi doctors was made public after all this time. Fortunately, Dana Maltravers would be the perfect scapegoat.

I had done what I could to prepare my stash of weapons when Lister called.

“Anacostia Marina, 7:30 a.m.,” he said. “If you look at a map, it’s northeast of the John Philip Sousa Bridge—a couple of miles before the Anacostia River meets the Potomac. He’s got this big black-and-silver motherfucker of a cabin cruiser. It’s called the
Isolde.
Oh, and he’s coming alone.”

“Yeah, right.” I grabbed my D.C. map and spotted the place.

“That’s what he told me, man.”

“All right, Gordy. Did you tell him about his sister?”

“Yeah.”

“How did he take it?”

“He didn’t start yelling and screaming, if that’s what you mean.”

“Cool as a cucumber, eh?”

“More like icy as the berg that gutted the Titanic. I gotta go, man.”

“You’re tainted goods with your employer, Gordy,” I said, unwilling to let him off the hook. “New Mexico might just be far enough.”

“Bullshit. Larry knows I’m okay.”

“Or maybe South America,” I continued. “There’s no shortage of Nazis there.”

“Hey, haven’t you noticed? There are Nazis everywhere. Get over it.”

He cut the connection. He’d said that Thomson knew he was okay. I would remember that. I still wasn’t convinced that Gordy Lister was in the clear over Joe’s death.

I looked at my watch. I had just over two hours. That should be enough time to reconnoiter the location and make the kind of preparations that I’d learned from Dave Cummings. I had the feeling Thomson might screw up—unless his trap was already in place. I put my weapons into a handyman’s bag and went down to reception. The guy wasn’t impressed when I asked him for some resealable plastic food bags from the kitchen, but a couple of twenties cheered him up. I put the bags in my pocket and went out onto the street. Round the corner, I picked up a cab.

The driver dropped me on the Anacostia side of the bridge. It was still dark and there weren’t many lights in the strip of parkland below. I went down and walked along the bank until I was opposite the marina. I couldn’t see any sign of a large cabin cruiser, which suited me fine. Squatting by a bush, I put a loaded Glock 17 into a plastic bag, sealed it and then slipped it into another bag. Then I took off my shirt and, using the roll of insulating tape that had been part of my tool kit, I strapped the bagged pistol onto my chest. After removing a long strip, I put the insulating tape into another bag and sealed it. That bag, I also lashed to my chest. Then I stripped to my boxer shorts and attached the sheathed combat knife to my belt, before putting the latter round my waist. I could have walked across the bridge and taken my chances with whatever kind of security there was at the marina, but I wasn’t going to risk being caught—at least, not before I’d given myself a fighting chance. I took a deep breath and lowered myself into the water. I wasn’t the greatest of swimmers, but I was in reasonable shape. The problem was going to be the water temperature.

And, I realized after I’d taken a few strokes, the current. I’d not considered that. Fortunately the river wasn’t much more than a hundred and fifty yards wide, though I must have swum a lot more than that and my feet and hands were tingling in the cold. I made it to one of the wooden piers and looked around. There were enough lights for me to see that the pier I was at was the only one with clear space at the end. That was where Thomson would have to moor his cruiser. I clambered up the stanchions, breathing heavily and stood on the one beneath the end of the pier, the wind chilling me even more. With fumbling fingers, I managed to cut strips of tape and attach the bagged pistol to the underside so it was within reach if I lay on the decking above. Now all I had to do was swim back.

Because I was tired and cold, that proved to be a much harder job. At one point I thought I was going to be swept down to the Potomac, but somehow I kept going, flailing my arms and legs. I heaved myself out and used hotel towels to dry myself. Then I got back into my clothes and put on my watch. I had plenty of time to get dressed, making sure there was no dampness in my hair. I put Clem’s service revolver in my pocket—Thomson would no doubt expect me to be armed. I would hand it over with fake reluctance when he searched me.

I started walking around to get myself fully warmed up. During that time, I considered the name chosen for the boat, presumably by Larry Thomson—maybe his sister had her say, too. Tristan and Isolde were mythical doomed lovers and the Nazis’ favorite composer, Richard Wagner, had written an opera about them. It struck me that Thomson was taking a chance using a name that pointed so directly to his German roots. Maybe he was so arrogant that he thought he could get away with anything because he’d taken on a new identity. Then again, it was a fact that all sorts of people who maybe should have known better attended performances of Wagner’s work and openly proclaimed their admiration for it.

The lovers Tristan and Isolde: I wondered if there was some incestuous bond between the twins. I thought about Thomson’s sister. I hadn’t meant to kill Irma Rothmann, but my mind had been all over the place and I’d had a rush of blood when I acted. Although it wasn’t the first time I’d killed, the death of the Soul Collector’s sister had been an accident and I still regretted it. With the woman whose father had worked at Auschwitz, I seemed to be curiously unmoved. Thomson’s twin was a Nazi whose activities had probably led to many deaths and plenty of suffering at the camp, but I would still have expected some kind of emotional backlash.