Maps of Hell (33 page)

Instead, I started thinking about the trigger that turned Gwen and Randy into vicious aggressors. All it had taken was the single word
Barbarossa.
I seemed to have a lot of information at my fingertips about it. My memory was still behaving very unpredictably—had this stuff been planted? Barbarossa, or Redbeard, was the nickname of Fredrick I of the Hohenstaufen dynasty, Holy Roman Emperor from 1155 until his death in 1190. He was a great general and natural leader, and an inspiration to future generations of Germans, particularly those driven by dreams of conquest—whence the use of his nickname for the Nazi operation to attack the Soviet Union.

I twitched my head and came back to the real world. The point was that hearing
Barbarossa
had made Gwen and Randy act in a way that was obviously preconditioned. Their escape from the camp was just a story. They were playing parts in some devious plan, pretending to be junkies, perhaps unaware or only partly aware of what was happening. Which led to another thought. Exactly why had they been hanging out in a disused warehouse in D.C.? Gordy Lister knew, I was sure of that. Letting him go was looking even more like a cardinal error. Had the twins been stashed there because of the proximity to the Capitol or the White House?

A siren on the other side of the river caught my attention. I waited till it faded, then hid the bag with my remaining gear under a bush and walked across the bridge. As I got to the other side, I saw a bulky shadow pass quietly underneath. It was a dark boat with silver trim and was showing only running lights. I reckoned that was the
Isolde.
It slowed as it approached the pier. I focused on my plan of action. It was only a few minutes’ walk to the marina. The gate had already been opened for early morning business. I went in and walked toward the piers. It was a relief to see the cruiser was heading where I had anticipated. As I approached that pier, two men stepped out of the shadows. So much for Thomson coming alone. I was patted down and relieved of my cell phone and revolver, and an electronic scanner was run over me to check for surveillance devices. Eventually I was pushed toward the boat. Looking round, I saw that the gorillas weren’t following me.

I stopped at the end of the pier.

“Thomson?” I called. “I’m coming aboard.”

The tall man was fastening a mooring rope at the stern of the boat. He had a cell phone against his ear, having presumably just been informed by the guards that I was clean. Suddenly fearful of facing him unarmed, I was tempted to scrabble for the pistol under the pier, but I got a grip on myself. Surrendering was the only way I would be able to get close to the surviving twin.

I stepped onto the boat, ignoring Thomson’s outstretched hand. He was wearing a black polo-neck and black trousers, and he looked in good physical shape. As he led me into the cabin, I tried to see if he was armed. I needn’t have bothered.

He turned toward me and invited me to search him. I did so, and found nothing. He must have been following some weird Nazi honor code.

“Good,” he said, with a surprisingly warm smile. “Now we can get down to business. You’re lucky that I’m anxious to meet you. I don’t normally bother with such day-to-day nuisances.”

It was then that the door to the front cabin opened.

Larry Thomson had lied about being alone, all right. Not only that, but he’d invited the surviving occult killer along.

And Gwen Bonhoff didn’t look at all forgiving about what I’d done to her twin brother and her Führer’s sister.

“Y
ou can use this office, Detective Chief Superintendent.”

Karen Oaten glanced around the spacious room and nodded to the female agent.

“I’ll be outside if you need anything.”

“Thanks.” Karen put her briefcase down on the desk. Despite the early hour, there were plenty of people already at work in the J. Edgar Hoover building. Someone had stacked mail on the desk.

Sitting down, she went through the letters. Some of it dated from before her kidnap and concerned the Burdett case. She discarded that. There were also messages from back then, including some from senators and representatives with interests in international crime and policing. Turning to the computer, she saw a sheet of paper telling her how to log on and access her personal e-mail. She did so and was immediately alert.

The first message was from the director of the FBI. He congratulated her on her courage during the kidnapping and invited her to a celebration of her release that afternoon at four o’clock. He couldn’t be certain, but there was a good chance that the justice secretary would attend—she had followed Karen’s ordeal with great interest and wished to welcome her back in person, depending, of course, on her schedule.

Karen sat back, a smile on her lips. That was excellent, even more than she had hoped for. She had only to wait until the afternoon. Then she could guarantee that the news programs would have a hot story to report. But, more important, the movement would be fully under way and nothing would ever be the same again.

“She isn’t armed,” Larry Thomson said, his eyes blue and chill in the soft lights of the cruiser’s surprisingly large living space.

I looked at Gwen. She seemed to be having trouble keeping control of herself, her hands twitching and her eyes wide.

“She’s got nails,” I said.

“Indeed she has.” Thomson sat down and waved to me to do the same. “My little tigress.” He gave her a tight smile.

I decided to go on the offensive. I needed to get the self-styled Führer talking.

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to call you Rothmann.”

“Oh, please—do use my first name.”

I wasn’t going to do his bidding. “Why the change to Thomson?”

He looked at me curiously. “I thought you had everything worked out, Mr. Wells.”

“Obviously not.”

“You see, Irma and I died in 1972.”

“Really? So I killed a ghost last night, did I? A vampire? Yeah, that makes sense. You Nazis share plenty of characteristics with the undead.”

“There’s no need to be crude,” Thomson said, taking a cigarette from a silver case and lighting it. “I’m telling you about my personal history. Are you interested or not?”

I shrugged. He had me there. I needed as much detail as I could get if I was ever to clear myself—assuming I survived this tête-à-tête.

“We went over a cliff in my sports car.”

“Except you substituted the bodies. Who were they? Some unfortunate college kids?”

He smiled emptily. “Jews.”

A wave of nausea washed over me. I took a deep breath. “What was the point of the scam? Was your family background becoming an embarrassment?”

He frowned. “Let’s say that the American establishment was less keen to have links to the Third Reich in the seventies, even though we were second generation.”

“So you reinvented yourselves.”

“Exactly. It’s the American way. Of course, we kept on doing what we were good at. My sister—” he broke off and eyed me with a worrying lack of emotion “—Irma is…” He broke off and pursed his lips. “Irma was a brilliant chemist, as well as a world-class neuroscientist. She developed many drugs and processes that have become world beaters.”

“Including the ones that messed with my memory?”

“Yes—though, it would seem, not enough.”

“And you provided the business expertise that turned Woodbridge Holdings into a successful multinational company.” I gave him a harsh glare, trying to provoke him. “That camp in Maine was just a test bed for Irma’s drugs. And a place for your little Nazi army to grow like fungus in the forest.”

Rothmann nodded impassively. “Irma didn’t just work with drugs, though. She was also involved with some remarkable machines.”

I had a flash of the complex mechanical lid that had lowered over me—the martial music, the uniforms, images from what I now realized was Nazi Germany.

What was it they had called the process?

“Coffining,” I said. “What a pretty name.”

“Because the subjects died and became ours,” Rothmann said, his eyes narrowing. “In most cases.”

“You brainwashed me.”

“Not just you,” he said dismissively. “There are many who came through with substantially better results.” He angled his head toward the young woman opposite. “Including Gwen.”

I looked at her. She seemed confused, her eyes darting between him and me.

“You bastard,” I said. “You turned her into a killer. You made her and her brother carry out the occult killings, didn’t you?”

He looked at me and shook his head slowly. “That is where you show your ignorance.” His cell phone rang. “Yes, the comrade is expected,” he said, after listening intently. “Very well. Send her over.”

I wondered who this could be. Another from the Rothmann parade of twin zombies? I heard light steps on the pier outside and a knock on the door.

“Come!” ordered the Führer.

The door slid open and a figure wearing a black rain jacket stepped inside. There was a hood over the head and I couldn’t make out the face in the dim light of the cabin.

“Show yourself,” Rothmann said. There was a tightness in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

I felt my stomach somersault before the features came into view. Could it be that my ex-lover Sara Robbins, the Soul Collector, was behind the killings after all? Could she have inveigled her way into Rothmann’s confidence? I didn’t have the slightest doubt that she could have.

The hood was pulled back and I felt my gut clench. I’d seen the angular features before. I’d been bound to a wheelchair, surrounded by naked, chanting people—and, up at the front, there had been a pair of prancing figures. One had a hyena’s head and the other the stony face of the most depraved gargoyle. The latter was on display now.

“How dare you?” Rothmann said, spittle flying from his mouth. “Take that mask off immediately!”

A hand was raised slowly to the repulsive features—I had a vision of the naked woman, the one I’d feared was Karen, being tied to the upturned cross and then butchered. Then I saw that the person before me was a young woman, red hair pulled back from an attractive face. She dropped the mask to the floor with disgust.

“I know you,” I said, as my memory kicked in. “You were at Joe Greenbaum’s place with Clem Simmons.”

The woman nodded. “That’s right. I’m medical examiner for the MPDC, actually—Marion Gilbert’s the name. And you’re Matt Wells, the so-called occult killer, aren’t you? I’ve seen your photograph.”

Rothmann was looking at her curiously. “It’s good to see you, Doctor. But I’m rather busy at the moment. Could you perhaps wait? There is very comfortable accommodation that way.” He pointed toward the bow of the
Isolde.
“Please take the mask with you. I will need you to explain what you’re doing with it. The original is dedicated to the unholy ritual. No copies should ever have been made.”

“I made it out of misplaced love.” The doctor laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “I’m not going anywhere, my Führer.” She spoke the title as if it burned her tongue. There was a blur of movement, after which I saw she was holding a vicious-looking skewer in each hand.

Rothmann looked astonished. “You!” he gasped. “You’re the occult killer? But…but you were one of our earliest subjects, you were trusted with—”

“Stand still, girl!” Marion Gilbert said, pointing one of her weapons at Gwen. “Move backward and sit on the sofa.” She glanced at me and Rothmann. “All of you!”

We complied. I tried to move my thigh away from the Führer’s, but he wasn’t giving me any room.

“What is this?” he demanded. “You are to show respect to me at all times!’

Marion Gilbert stepped closer. “I’m afraid those times are gone. If you speak again, I’ll put one of these skewers through your tongue.”

Rothmann opened his mouth, but sensibly he made no sound.

Since I hadn’t yet been threatened, I decided to act as interlocutor. “Help me out here, Doctor,” I said. “You were one of the Rothmanns’ guinea pigs?”

She nodded. “There were twenty of us.” Then she sighed and words that she had been holding back for far too long were finally spoken.

“We were all at the top of the class in high school. One of the boys and I wanted to study medicine. The rest were going to be businessmen, soldiers, scientists—a range of professions. And we all had a similar racial background—we were white and of German, Anglo-Saxon or Scandinavian stock.” She pointed at Rothmann. “This…this man and his vile sister set up a fund, and tempted our parents with scholarships and grants for our studies. The only condition was that we had to spend half of each vacation on what they called research projects. We thought that meant we’d be doing research, but it turned out we were the subjects.” She glared at Rothmann. “Guinea pigs is right. We were as expendable as animals. Sixteen of the group were terminated before a year passed.”

“Were terminated?” Gwen said.

Marion Gilbert’s expression softened. “You’re one of us, too, aren’t you? I can tell by your eyes. I can also see that your conditioning is in full effect.” She smiled sharply. “Try anything and the Führer dies in agony.”

Gwen sat back, but her nails were digging into her thighs.

“Were terminated?” I repeated.

The doctor looked at me blankly for a few moments—I got the impression she was struggling to keep focus.

“The people who couldn’t take the conditioning were…killed…. If they were twins, which many of us were, the stronger sibling was ordered to execute the weaker.”

Jesus. Then I remembered the woman who had cut the man’s throat in front of cameras in the camp. Had they been twins, too?

Gwen leaned forward. “It’s not like that now,” she said, looking at Rothmann earnestly. “I was with my twin, Randy, till…” She broke off and gave me a fierce stare. “Until this man shot him last night.” She turned back to her Führer. “Before he killed Professor Irma.”

Rothmann’s eyes locked with mine. Although there was little trace of emotion, I could see that he intended to make me pay the full price for what I’d done to his twin sister.

“You killed the bitch, Matt Wells?” Marion Gilbert asked, her face suffusing with joy. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard since…” She stopped speaking and peered at the skewers in her hands. “Since Malcolm made the Yale chess team.” She took a quick step toward the sofa and buried a skewer to its hilt in Rothmann’s thigh, keeping the other pointed at Gwen. “But that still wasn’t enough for you. Malcolm…Malcolm.” Her voice cracked. “Your sister shot him in the heart.”

Rothmann was biting his lip, but he didn’t have the nerve to speak.

“I couldn’t do it myself.” Marion’s eyes were damp. “So she made me watch.”

I gave her a bit of time. I suspected the conditioning had stopped her grieving for her lost twin until now. I felt a strange empathy for the woman, multiple murderer though she was. I had been struggling enough with what had been done to my brain, but she had obviously been through much worse.

“You’ve been trying to nail them, haven’t you?” I said when she got her breathing under control. “The murders and the drawings—”

That surprised her. “You know about the drawings?”

I nodded. “I’ve been in contact with the detectives.”

Marion Gilbert looked confused. “But you’re a suspect.”

“Not for everyone. That was the FBI’s line, but one of this scumbag’s people was messing with the evidence. Dana Maltravers—do you know her?”

The doctor was staring at Rothmann, as if daring him to speak. His face was twisted in pain, his hands clutching the wound, but he kept silent.

“No,” she said. “We don’t know the identities of the others who have been through the camp. We receive individual assignments and orders.”

“And what were yours recently?”

“To keep them informed of the investigations.” She gave a strangled laugh. “The investigations into the murders I myself committed.” The doctor suddenly looked very tired. She leaned against the walnut-paneled bulkhead, the skewer quivering in her hand. “I…couldn’t help myself. Things that happened at the camp started to come back to me…mock executions…sexual abuse. The others turned on us when we refused to commit incest, they beat us terribly…and then I remembered…I remembered Malcolm’s death…”

“And you decided to hit back.”

She nodded. “The Antichurch…they kept taking us to the rituals, the sacrifices…it’s only in the last day or so that I’ve understood how horrible that side of the process was. They made us believe that Lucifer was rising, that he would reward his faithful servants. So I…I couldn’t stop myself choosing people who were apostates, who had chosen the wrong occult path….”

I thought about her victims. “But Loki the singer was a satanist.”

“An unworthy one,” the doctor said, avoiding my gaze. “He wasn’t serious about the faith. It was all a facade. He only cared about drugs and sex.”

“So you killed Monsieur Hexie, Professor Singer and Crystal Vileda because the Antichurch didn’t approve of their fields—voodoo, the kabbalah, tarot?”

Marion Gilbert still wouldn’t look at me. “Yes,” she replied, then shivered. “I know about the tarot myself—the Vileda woman was a fraud.”

“Hardly a reason to kill her,” I said, unwilling to let her off the hook.

The doctor’s eyes were fixed on Rothmann. “The fact that they were members of proscribed racial groups was also relevant.”

I looked round at the Führer. “Proscribed racial groups? You assholes have such a thing about African-Americans, Jews and Hispanics.” I turned to Marion Gilbert. “Let him talk, will you? I want to see how sick he really is.”