Maps of Hell (30 page)

“It’s all right, Dana,” the older woman said. “There’s no reason to be coy.” She turned to me. “Mr. Wells, this is Special Agent Dana Maltravers of the FBI violent-crime team. She’s been working very hard to find you.”

I remembered Clem having mentioned that name. “You work with Peter Sebastian?”

The young woman looked surprised, which was what I wanted.

“Could it be that you’re the one who made sure my prints were at two of the occult-murder scenes?”

I seemed to have scored another hit, though the FBI agent was still as cold as a glacier. I needed to antagonize her more, make her drop her guard. “Interesting name,” I said. I had always been fascinated by what people were called and used to spend hours with encyclopedias on the subject. Fortunately, that part of my memory seemed to be accessible. “Dana is the feminine form of Daniel, isn’t it? Rather a Jewish name for your sort, don’t you think?”

“It was chosen deliberately,” she said, glancing at Fraulein Rothmann. “To divert suspicion.”

“It certainly worked for me,” I said, with an ironic smile. “As for Maltravers, well,
mal
is evil, so that seems appropriate.” Their faces were stony. “And
travers
means a crossing, doesn’t it? Particularly an oblique one.”

“You’ll soon be wishing you never crossed me, Wells,” the young woman said, raising the Glock to my face.

I tried to ignore that. “Oblique as in underhand or askew,” I continued. “Like your sense of ethics?”

“That will do!”
Fraulein Rothmann had finally showed some emotion. “What we need from you is a list of all the people with whom you have shared information about Woodbridge Holdings, my brother, the camp or anything pertaining to it.” She laughed sharply. “And if you’re waiting for your Negro detective friend to rescue you, don’t bother. He has been restrained and will shortly be on his way to the river.”

My stomach pole-vaulted.

Jesus, Clem. What had I got him into?

K
aren Oaten sat back in her seat in the FBI helicopter, swallowing hard as the machine took off. She had her hands over the bulge in her midriff, worried that the safety belt and the movement of the helicopter would disturb her child. Then she relaxed as the lights of the small town below faded into the night. All would be well. Her leaders had given their personal assurances.

“Everything okay?” The voice in the headphones was tinny.

“Yes, Levon.” She smiled at the occupant of the seat next to her.

“So, do you want to give me a rundown of what happened?”

Karen paused. Levon Creamer was the FBI man who had looked after her when she had arrived in Washington. He was chief of the financial-crime department, a thin, balding man in his mid-forties, whose manner was more that of an accountant than a law-enforcement agent. She was confident enough about the story that she had learned in detail, but she wasn’t sure recounting it in the helicopter would do it justice.

“I don’t really know, Levon. I came round on a roadside and started walking. I suppose I was lucky there was a policeman in that place.”

“Your captors may have put you in the neighborhood deliberately. Hey, Karen, are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

His concern touched her, though she knew he really only wanted to know the details of her kidnapping. A doctor had checked her before the helicopter arrived, so Creamer knew her medical status. Maybe he was worried about the baby.

“I’m fine,” she said. “And so’s the little one.”

“Good. You’ve had a hell of an ordeal. Tell me about it.”

“To be honest with you, I don’t remember very much. I was lying down in the Shenandoah Valley and suddenly everything went dark. Some kind of hood was over my head. I was carried to a vehicle and driven for a long time—I’d say at least four hours. I tried to talk, but a male voice told me to shut up if I wanted…if I wanted to keep my baby.” She paused for effect.

Levon Creamer waited silently for a respectable time. “Was the guy American?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t tell you what accent he had.”

“Then what?”

“Well…I’m sorry to say, I got very frightened. Eventually I…I couldn’t control my bladder any longer…they laughed when they saw what I’d done. There were two…two men.”

“The bastards.”

“Yes. Finally the vehicle stopped and I was hauled out. The hood stayed on my head until I was inside. After a time, I realized I was on my own and I took it off.” She paused again. “I actually laughed when I saw where I was. It was like a bedroom out of a Doris Day film, all frilly bedcovers and pastel wallpaper. I went to the door. Of course, it was locked and very solid. At least there was an en suite bathroom, but the door had been taken off. It didn’t take me long to spot the cameras in every corner of the bedroom and bathroom.”

“Jesus.”

“It wasn’t so bad. I held a towel in front of me when I used the toilet. If they wanted to watch me in the shower, too bad.”

The FBI man looked up from the notes he was writing on a clipboard. “Brave lady. And that was where you were all this time?”

“Yes. The windows had been boarded up, so I had to rely on my watch to tell the time of day. The date function meant I knew how many days I’d been in captivity, though, to tell you the truth, it still went into a kind of blur. There was no TV or radio, so very soon I felt totally cut off from the outside world.”

“They feed you all right?”

“I got three meals a day. It wasn’t great food, but adequate. I was even given fresh milk twice a day. They would tell me to go into the bathroom and then open the door to leave a tray. The same in reverse when I’d finished. The cutlery and dishes were always plastic and they checked that everything was returned. I know that because I kept a knife once and they realized immediately.”

“Did they ever talk to you or come inside your quarters?”

“Apart from the instructions at mealtimes, which came through a small speaker on the ceiling, no. I didn’t see anyone all the time I was there. At least there were some books to read. I’ve become a great fan of Ayn Rand, not least because she wrote very long novels.”

“You didn’t have any blackouts or times when you woke up feeling woozy?”

“You mean, did they drug me to find out what I knew? No, nothing that I’m aware of.”

Creamer smiled encouragingly. “And how’s your memory?”

“Fine.” She smiled back at him and tried to act like a normal human being. “Is Matt okay?”

The FBI man kept his eyes off her. “Um, yes, I think so. The deputy director will bring you up to speed.”

Karen nodded blankly. She’d been told before she was taken from the camp about her former lover’s involvement in the awful murders in Washington. It had been a shock that her baby’s father was a killer, but she would make sure the child never knew. Matt Wells belonged to the past—that had been made very clear to her.

“I presume all my files are secure,” she said.

“Uh, yeah, they are,” Creamer said, reestablishing eye contact. “We picked them up from your hotel the day after you disappeared. It didn’t look like anything was missing.”

“Good,” Karen said enthusiastically. “I need to get back to work first thing tomorrow morning. I presume my meetings with the Bureau and the Department of Justice will be rescheduled?”

Levon Creamer looked surprised. “We assumed you’d need time to recover.”

“Am I giving you that impression now?”

The FBI man shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

“Please make the arrangements, Levon.”

She watched as he changed to another channel and started talking animatedly. Everything was running smoothly. She was sure the meeting she most wanted would also be scheduled soon.

I sat on the sofa and took another slug of wine, trying to keep my face unreadable as my mind went into over-drive. What were my options? I could give Fraulein Rothmann and her gun-toting daughter a list of invented names, but I had the feeling they were in the loop enough to rumble that plan. Telling them about Pinker would condemn him to death, as may have already happened with Clem. Shit, what was I doing debating the issue? I needed to act right now.

I gagged on the wine, then sprayed it over the table and floor. I coughed hard and started gasping for breath, my hands on my throat. I hoped my face had gone a dark enough shade of red to convince them that I was having some kind of seizure.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I heard Irma Rothmann say. “See if you can help him, Dana. Give me the gun.”

That was progress—she had to be less proficient with firearms than the FBI agent. I kept up the act, pumping my chest up and down like a man who was at death’s door. Then I felt the daughter’s hands under my arms as she tried to turn me onto my side on the sofa. I had my eyes wide-open, but I didn’t focus on her face as she leaned over me.

“Bring some water,
Mutti,
” Dana Maltravers said, as she kept trying to get me into the recovery position.

This had worked out better than I’d expected. I waited till the mother’s thin form had moved away, then grabbed the younger woman’s shoulders and flipped her onto the table. By the time I made to jump on top of her, she had already rolled away on to the floor. Maltravers knew how to look after herself in a fight. The angled foot that I took on my chin emphasized that point.

“Fuck you, Wells. You just made a terminal mistake.”

Her right leg shot out and the foot hit me again, this time on my cheek. I reeled backward. As I tried to pull myself up, I caught a glimpse of Irma Rothmann.

She had her arms crossed, the pistol pointing toward the floor. It was obvious who she had her money on.

Dana Maltravers stepped onto the table and launched her foot at me again. This time, my reactions were sharper. I leaned to the side and grabbed her knee, then pulled hard. She managed to flatten her hand and deliver a decent chop to my neck as she flew past. I crumpled onto the sofa and then was just quick enough to take her by the hips and shove her over the back. There was no carpet there and I heard a satisfying thud as her head hit the floor. Her mother suddenly looked alarmed and raised the weapon. I scrambled over the sofa and landed on top of Dana Maltravers. She was still conscious but looked dazed. I twisted one of her arms behind her back and then hauled her to her feet, making sure her body was shielding mine.

“Dana!” Irma Rothmann screamed.
“Let her go!”

I was fighting for breath. “Drop the gun!” I gasped. “Now!” I looked round my captive’s head.

The older woman was still pointing the pistol toward us.

“No, Mr. Wells,” she said, her eyes colder than a polar bear’s. “If my daughter must be hurt, so be it. The cause is more important than any single person.”

“Mutti!”
Maltravers croaked.

“That’ll be your caring Nazi ideology, I suppose,” I said, keeping my head behind my captive’s. “Don’t you just love it, Dana?”

“Let her go!” Fraulein Rothmann screamed. “If I hit her, the bullet will go through to you, as well.”

“So what?” I said, with as much bravado as I could muster. “At least there’ll be one less Nazi in the world.”

I heard a crash at the far end of the room and risked a look. The older woman’s aim was wavering. I shoved her daughter toward her, keeping a tight grip on her. We all three clattered to the floor and I scrabbled for the gun that the impact had driven out of Irma Rothmann’s hand. I got hold of it just as a large pair of men’s shoes appeared in front of me.

“Here,” Clem Simmons said, extending the hand that wasn’t holding his service weapon—its muzzle was directed at Dana Maltravers.

I took the hand and was jerked to my feet. I turned to the two women who were sprawled in front of us.

Clem had taken quite a beating and his jacket was torn. He wiped blood from his damaged lips. “This
is
a surprise, Special Agent Maltravers,” he said. He glanced at the older woman. “Who’s this?”

“Her mother. Irma Rothmann, Larry Thomson’s twin sister.” That made me think. “Where’s your brother?” I asked her.

She didn’t respond. She was too busy cradling her daughter’s head and speaking to her in German. No doubt she was trying to reassure her that she wouldn’t really have sacrificed her for the cause. It didn’t look like Dana Maltravers was buying it.

“We’d better get out of here, Matt,” Clem said, looking over his shoulder. “I took out three of the fuckers, got them restrained, but there may be more of them around.”

I nodded. We secured the women’s wrists behind their backs with plastic ties and pushed them toward the door. “Did you call for backup?”

He shook his head. “We need to get this shit in order before I get my people involved.”

I nodded. That was the way I wanted it, but we were taking a chance.

In the hall by the exit, there was a small table covered with keys and cards.

“Which one operates the executive elevator?” I asked.

Irma Rothmann looked away, so I jammed the muzzle of Dana Maltravers’s gun into her belly.

“If you prefer, I can drop your daughter down the stairwell,” I said savagely, remembering what had been done to Joe Greenbaum.

The woman swallowed and then pointed to a yellow card. I inserted it and the elevator doors opened. We got in and moved downward rapidly. As we reached the entrance-hall level, Clem muscled Fraulein Rothmann in front of him. I did the same with Dana Maltravers. When the doors opened, we moved out cautiously. To my relief, there was nobody around.

“The alarm system suffered a catastrophic failure,” Clem said.

“Something to do with that screwdriver you had in your pocket?” I asked.

“Something to do with the rounds I had in my service weapon. Let’s hit the sidewalk.”

We did so, then walked up the street to the car. A passing man in a sharp suit peered at us, but was satisfied by a flash of Clem’s badge. Irma Rothmann started talking in a loud voice, but stopped when the detective squeezed her forearm hard. We made it to the car. I got in the back between the two women.

We headed for Vers and the twins. I could tell that Clem was tempted to floor the gas pedal, but he restrained himself. Gwen and Randy had been calm enough, but what would happen when they were confronted with the woman they called the professor, their Führer’s ice-veined twin sister?

Peter Sebastian’s eyes were fixed on the TV screen in the corner of his office. One of his team had called from home to alert him. There were live pictures of Detective Chief Superintendent Karen Oaten of the London Metropolitan Police climbing out of a Bureau helicopter at Reagan airport, followed by Levon Creamer of Financial Crime. The news channel was making much of the fact that the woman was unharmed from her kidnap ordeal, as well as stressing that the FBI had not yet given any details of how it had ended.

Sebastian knew Creamer, but he’d never worked with him. The bastard should at least have let him know what was going on. Then again, it had never been established that the British policewoman’s disappearance was linked to that of the suspect Matt Wells. Sebastian would have to talk to Creamer, but he had the feeling that now was not the time. The sight of the deputy director meeting Ms. Oaten and escorting her to a waiting car reinforced that suspicion. He would have to wait till morning.

In the meantime, he’d decided to call Dana Maltravers and make his peace with her. She deserved to know about the Document Analysis Unit’s ideas, too. But, to his great surprise, she didn’t answer her cell phone, which rang until the messaging service cut in. It wasn’t the first time that had happened recently.

Peter Sebastian wished he hadn’t behaved so offensively to his assistant.