Maps of Hell (25 page)

I
went to the Woodbridge Holdings office, but I only walked past, making sure I didn’t attract attention. I wanted to take a look at the enemy’s lair—not that I knew who the enemy was exactly. I was planning to do some research into that. Then my cell vibrated against my thigh.

There was a text from Joe: “New occult murder reported. Watch yourself!”

That took the wind from my sails. Presumably Clem Simmons or some contact in the FBI had let him know. I wondered if there would be any evidence linking me to the murder this time. I had to move things along. That took me back to Karen. The case notes she’d brought from London were either with the FBI or had been returned to her office, so there was no accessing them. That left me with one option—the Internet.

I headed for Union Station and found a café. I bought a large coffee then I sat with my head in my hands, trying to concentrate. There was information in the depths of my memory—I was sure of that—but it wasn’t obliging right now.

I went back over the events since I’d escaped from the camp in Maine. What hadn’t I followed up? I remembered the underground building, the violence, the armed men and women in gray…and there it was—they had worn badges bearing the letters
NANR.
I had asked one of my pursuers what they stood for. What was the reply? It came back to me after some thought. North American National Revival. I typed the words into a search engine.

Thanks to the glorious lack of censorship on the Web, I found the organization in seconds. The problem was, the North American National Revival seemed to have nothing to do with anything in Maine. Its headquarters were in Butte, Montana, and its manifesto, riddled with spelling and grammatical mistakes, didn’t seem particularly offensive—it called for reductions in federal taxes, a halt to immigration, especially from Mexico, and more teaching of traditional Christian beliefs in schools and colleges. There was nothing overtly anti-government, and certainly no references to an armed wing or camps ringed with barbed wire. Then again, they would hardly have mentioned those in public. I went back to the site’s home page and clicked on “Local Centers.” Glory be—there was an address in Washington, D.C. I wrote it down and then logged on to a city map. I found that the location on Q Street was close to Dupont Circle Metro station. It was well into the evening and the office would probably be closed, but I decided to check it out all the same.

I got there in under half an hour. The building was a low-rise office block. Most of the lights were either dimmed or off, but it was brighter up on the second floor. A security guard was standing outside the glass doors.

“NANR?” I asked.

The elderly black man gave me an impenetrable look and then pointed to the elevators. “Second floor,” he said, with a brief shake of his head that attracted my attention.

I stepped closer. “What are they like? I’m a journalist.”

The guard eyed me for a few moments. “Wonderful people,” he said, the irony almost imperceptible. “Wouldn’t say a thing against them.”

“How about anything
for
them?”

“That neither,” he said, his lips almost forming into a smile. “Are you really a reporter?”

“I write a weekly column.” That wasn’t a lie, though he wouldn’t have heard of my London paper. Then again, I’d forgotten its name until recently. “On crime,” I added.

That got him interested. “Is that right, son? Well, the NANR is always saying it isn’t a criminal organization.” He looked around—we were still alone. “Some might not agree.”

“Why’s that?”

The security guard leaned closer. “I’ll tell you why. Because it’s run by the worst kind of racist pig—the kind who’s learned how to cover up what he thinks about people like me.”

That was interesting, but I needed more. “You got any examples of racist behavior?”

He shook his head. “No, they’re far too smart for that. I’m just going by my gut. The top man here, a guy called Larry Thomson, is the worst. He looks at me like I’m his best friend, but I know for sure he wants to hang me from the nearest tree.”

“Is he here at the moment?”

“Yup.”

“You wouldn’t care to give me the nod when he comes out, would you?”

“What you going to do?”

“Just see where he goes,” I replied. That seemed to disappoint the guard. There was a large concrete plant holder at the side of the steps that I concealed myself behind. Then I sent Joe a text, asking him to run a check on this Larry Thomson.

About an hour later, a group of people came out of the elevator and walked toward the exit. They all nodded politely to the guard, especially the man at the rear. He was tall and fair-haired, with a prominent nose and probably in his late fifties. He was carrying a black leather briefcase and had the bearing of a leader. I looked over at the security guard. He briefly extended a finger at the tall guy’s back as he headed down the steps.

I followed at about twenty paces’ distance and soon realized that Thomson was heading for the metro station I’d come from—the others had all respectfully wished him goodnight and dispersed. I went inside and loitered on the Glenmont platform, then got on the same train that he did and followed him off it at Metro Central. He exited the station and headed north. I’d been thinking about asking him straight out whether the NANR had an armed wing in Maine, but my bravado had dwindled away. Now I was more interested in where he was going. Then I saw we were on the street I’d scoped earlier. As Larry Thomson approached the Woodbridge Holdings building, I started to walk faster and was only about five yards behind him when he turned up the steps. I whipped out my cell phone and managed to take a photo of him without being noticed either by him or the security man who opened the door for him. I saw Thomson go toward a bank of elevators inside as I walked on nonchalantly.

At the next corner, I stopped and sent the photo to Joe, telling him of the link I’d just established between the North American National Revival and Woodbridge Holdings. I was hoping he’d manage to dig the dirt on the tall man. Meanwhile, I’d be subjecting my memory to another bout of the third degree.

Chief Owen was standing outside the apartment building in Lincoln Park, flanked by Clem Simmons and Gerard Pinker. He was looking at the pavement rather than at Peter Sebastian.

“No, there’s no chance of this being a Metro P.D. case,” the FBI man said firmly. “The pair of weapons and the presence of the drawings clearly link it to the series we’ve already taken over.”

Owen raised his eyes briefly. “What about the floater, then? You haven’t tied that to the other murders. I heard the vic was a farmer from Iowa.”

“Actually, we’re not sure he’s connected, but we’re holding on to him for the time being.” He eyed the detectives wearily. “Haven’t you got enough cases of your own to investigate?”

“What about Matt Wells?” Clem Simmons asked, ignoring Pinker’s immediate alarm.

“Our people have found fingerprints that we expect to be his,” Dana Maltravers said. “We haven’t had any sighting of him. You?”

Simmons shrugged. “We aren’t in missing persons, Special Agent.”

“He’s a murder suspect,” Sebastian put in.

“He’s a murder suspect in cases we’ve been excluded from,” Rodney Owen said.

“Is that the level of cooperation we can expect from you, Chief?” Sebastian demanded. “Because if it is, I’ll be on the phone to your superiors right away.”

Owen gave him a haughty stare. “Cooperation is a two-way street.” He looked at his detectives. “Besides, we haven’t got anything to pass on, have we?”

Simmons and Pinker shook their heads.

The group broke up, the detectives heading for their cars.

“Nicely done, Clem,” Pinker said in a low voice.

Chief Owen looked over his shoulder. “I hope you men have been fully open with the Bureau,” he said, a smile appearing at the corners of his mouth. “No, I don’t want to hear about it. Just get the job done.” He got into his Buick and drove off.

“What job’s that, Clem?” Pinker asked as they got into his partner’s car.

“Don’t ask me,” Simmons replied. “Besides, we’ve got cases of our own to investigate.”

Joe Greenbaum was at his desk, his desktop and laptop computers in operation. There was a large bottle of Pepsi on one side of the keyboards and an almost empty box of doughnuts on the other. He hummed tunelessly as his fingers rattled the keys rapidly, his eyes jumping from one screen to the other. He hadn’t succeeded in finding another image of Larry Thomson yet, but he’d gathered other information.

Earlier he had taken a look at Gavin Burdett’s BlackBerry. He’d tried to make sense of the limey banker’s diary, but the guy seemed to keep names and places in his head—there were only times listed for each day. He was certainly having plenty of meetings, though the pages were blank four days from now.

One of Joe’s failings was that he frequently got distracted by what he was working on. That was why he’d had a camera installed outside his apartment, showing not only the vicinity of his door but also the stairway all the way down to the ground floor. He’d also had pressure pads inserted under the first three steps that led to his floor. These things were meant to give him time to call the cops. He’d been attacked by a businessman’s thugs a couple of years back, and he didn’t intend spending another month in hospital.

Those precautions were why the faint sound of scratching on the apartment’s steel-lined door took Joe completely by surprise. He looked at the screens showing the landing and staircase. They had gone blank. He immediately grabbed the phone; no dial tone. By the time he’d located his cell and started pressing buttons, it was too late. There was a dull crump and smoke billowed in from the shattered door. Joe slid beneath his desk, catching his broad shoulders in the narrow space.

“Please, Mr. Greenbaum, do get up.”

Joe was amazed on two counts—the voice was cultured and it was female.

“We’re not going to shoot you. At least, not to death.”

Joe pulled his Colt Anaconda from its holster under the desk. He leaned forward and loosed off three shots. It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t yet sent the information he’d just gathered to his secure server.

“Not even close,” came the woman’s voice—she sounded very young. “Have a pleasant evening, sir.”

Joe heard another voice in the background, this one deeper—a man’s. Then there was movement toward the door.

After a short time, the reporter crawled backward from under the desk and got to his feet, holding his weapon in a two-handed grip. Then he saw the black box by the door, a red light flashing on its side. He grabbed the data stick from his computer and rushed to the rear window. After he’d opened it, he hardly had time to breathe before his life was blown to fragments.

I spent an hour in a different café in central D.C. There were no references to Larry Thomson on any sites apart from the North American National Revival’s. I went through what there was for Woodbridge Holdings, aware that Joe would have done so, too, by now, but maybe something would jog my memory about the camp. All I found were endless details about the company’s interests, none of which pointed directly to the depths of the Maine wilderness.

A little bleary-eyed, I decided to give Joe a call and see how he was getting on. A voice said the subscriber had turned off the cell—I sent him a text in case he turned it on again soon. After ten minutes I grew impatient. I left the café, found a pay phone and called his landline. Again, unobtainable. I began to get a bad feeling. Joe had said he would stay at his computers until he found something. He hadn’t been intending to go out and, besides, it was nearly midnight. I hailed a passing cab and told him a street behind Joe’s place. I didn’t have to risk using the front entrance—I could approach via the yards, as we’d done a couple of nights back.

I heard the sirens as soon as I got out of the cab. Jesus, what had happened? I jumped a low fence and ran across the unkempt gardens. As I got nearer to my friend’s building, the smell of hot dust became more intense. I could see a cloud of smoke and steam in the air ahead. Shit, what had I got Joe into? It was only when I saw the firemen in the yard behind Joe’s apartment that I stopped and took cover. They were directing hoses at the windows on the second floor. In their shouts the word
bomb
came up more than once.

I retraced my steps and cautiously turned the corner to his street. I needn’t have worried about breaking cover. A crowd had gathered in front of the fire trucks and police cars. I joined it and pushed toward the front. Beyond men in heavy clothes, carrying oxygen tanks, I made out the solid form of Clem Simmons. I didn’t have his cell-phone number so I had no option but to attract his attention. After he’d finished talking to an attractive red-haired woman, I managed that. Looking away from me, he bent under the barrier tape and walked down the street. I gave him a minute and then followed. He was waiting for me at the corner.

“What happened?” I asked breathlessly.

“We’re pretty sure it was a bomb.” His eyes lowered. “A powerful one, too. There’s nothing left of Joe’s apartment. The fire chief has taken his men out as he thinks the whole building might come down.”

“Any human remains?”

He nodded slowly. “Small pieces. No identification possible yet.”

I knew it had to be Joe. “Fuck,” I said. “I’m responsible for this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I got him into this, didn’t I?”

“You’re saying that a reporter with his track record wouldn’t have gone after these creeps if you hadn’t been involved? Don’t be so goddamned conceited.”

I thought about that. He was right. Joe was already on the ball about Woodbridge Holdings, and he would have looked out for me and Karen even if I hadn’t gone to him. It was a slight to my friend’s memory to suggest otherwise.

“You want to come in, Matt?” Clem Simmons asked, his expression softening. “If they got him, they’ll be after you, too.”