The Sigma Protocol (57 page)

“May I have it, please?”

Ben handed it over. The priest ran his free hand down the front and back of Ben’s suit jacket, beneath the shoulders, at the waist, the legs and ankles. A swift and expert frisking. He then examined the cell phone carefully and returned it to Ben.

“I need to see your passport, some form of identification.”

Ben produced his Michael Johnson passport and slipped out a business card as well. Earlier in the morning he had taken the precaution of stopping at a printing-and-copy shop on Avenue 9 de Julio and ordering fifty of them, surcharge for rush. An hour later he had plausible-looking cards for Michael Johnson, partner in a fictional Manhattan law firm.

The priest examined it.

“Look,” Ben said, summoning high dudgeon, “I really don’t have time for this. And put the damn gun away.”

Ignoring his request, the priest indicated the exit. “This way.”

He pulled the door open to the dazzling sun, a tiny courtyard, and the sliding side doors of a windowless black van.

“Please.” A wave of the gun barrel. He meant: into the van.

“Sorry,” Ben said. So this was the widow’s son? He could scarcely credit it: he didn’t look anything like Jürgen, who would have to be his half brother at least. “Nothing doing.”

The priest’s eyes blazed. “Then you are, of course,
free to go. But if you wish to see my mother you must go my way.” His tone softened. “You see, people still come to Buenos Aires to talk to her. Journalists sometimes, but sometimes also bounty hunters, crazy people with guns. Maybe agents from the Mossad. They used to threaten her to make her tell where is Lenz. For a long time people did not believe he was dead. Like with Mengele, they thought he made a trick. Now I will not let her see anyone she does not know unless I clear it.”

“You say ‘Lenz’—he’s not your father?”

A scowl. “My father married Lenz’s widow. But she has outlived both husbands. A strong woman. I take care of her. Please, get in.”

Everything is a chance
. He had not come this far to back out now. This man could finally lead him to the truth. After studying the enigmatic priest for a moment, he climbed into the back of the van.

The priest slid the doors closed with the rumble of thunder. Now the only illumination came from a dim roof light. Except for pull-down seats the van was entirely empty.

Everything is a chance
.

Ben wondered:
What have I done?

The engine started up, then protested all the way into first gear.

This is how they execute people
, Ben thought.
I don’t know this man, genuine priest or not. Maybe he’s from one of those groups Sonnenfeld mentioned who defend and protect the old Nazis
.

After some twenty minutes, the van came to a halt. Its doors slid open, revealing a cobblestone street in dappled light that filtered through a canopy of trees. The length of the journey told him they were still in Buenos Aires, but the street looked entirely different from the city he had seen so far. It was serene and quiet but for birdsong. And, just barely audible, piano music.

No, I’m not about to be killed.

He wondered what Anna would think. No doubt she’d be appalled at the risk he’d taken. And she’d be right.

They were parked in front of a two-story brick house with a roof of barrel tiles, not particularly large, but graceful. Wooden shutters on all the windows were closed. The piano music seemed to be coming from within the house, a Mozart sonata. A tall, serpentine wrought-iron fence enclosed the house and its small patch of yard.

The priest took Ben by the elbow and helped him out of the van. Either his gun was now concealed or, less likely, it had been left in the van. At the front gate he keyed a code into a number pad, unlocking the gate with an electrical buzz.

Inside, the house was cool and dark. The Mozart recording was coming from a room straight ahead. A note was bungled, the passage begun again, and Ben realized that this was no recording; someone was playing the piano with great skill. The old woman?

He followed the priest into the room from which the piano music emanated. It was a small sitting room, book-lined, Oriental carpets on the floor. A tiny, birdlike old woman was hunched over a Steinway grand. She did not seem to notice when they entered. They sat down on a coarse, uncomfortable couch and waited in silence.

When the piece was finished, she kept her hands frozen in the air, poised over the keys, then brought them slowly to her lap. The affectations of a concert pianist. Slowly she turned. Her face was prune-like, her eyes sunken, her neck crepey. She had to be ninety.

Ben clapped a few times.

She spoke in a quavering, hoarse small voice. “
¿Quién es éste?
”

“Mother, this is Mr. Johnson,” the priest said. “Mr. Johnson, my stepmother.”

Ben went over to her and took her fragile hand.

The priest continued, to Ben, “And I am Francisco.”

“
Póngame en una silla cómoda
,” the old woman said.

Francisco put an arm around his stepmother and helped her into a chair. She said in decent English, “You come from Austria?”

“I was just in Vienna, yes.”

“Why have you come?”

Ben began to speak, but she interrupted, fearful, “You are from the company?”

The
company?
Did she mean Sigma? If so, he had to make her talk.

“Frau… Frau Lenz, I’m afraid I’ve come here under false pretenses.”

Francisco swiveled his head toward Ben, furious. “I’ll kill you!”

“You see, Jürgen Lenz asked me to see you,” Ben said, ignoring him. He offered no explanation. Mention Austria, suggest that he had gained the trust of Jürgen Lenz. If pressed, he would improvise. He was getting good at that. “He asked me to meet with you and warn you to be especially careful, to tell you that your life may be in danger.”

“I am
not
Frau Lenz,” she said haughtily. “I have not been Lenz for over thirty years. I am Señora Acosta.”

“My apologies, señora.”

But the old woman’s hauteur had given way to fear. “Why does Lenz send you? What does he want?”

“Señora Acosta,” Ben began, “I’ve been asked—”

“Why?” she asked, raising her quavering voice. “
Why?
You come here from Semmering? We’ve done nothing wrong! We’ve done nothing to break the agreement! Leave us alone!”

“
No! Silence
, Mother!” the priest shouted.

What was she referring to?
The agreement
…Was
this
what Peter had stumbled on to?

“Señor Acosta, your son specifically asked me—”

“My son?” the old woman rasped.

“That’s right.”

“You say my son in
Vienna?
”

“Yes. Your son Jürgen.”

The priest rose. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Tell him, Francisco,” the old woman said. “Francisco is my
step
son. From my second marriage. I never had any children.” Her face was contorted with fear. “
I have no son
.”

The priest loomed menacingly over Ben. “You’re a liar,” he snapped. “You say you’re a lawyer for an estate, and now you lie to us again!”

Head reeling, Ben attempted a quick recovery. “You have no son? Then I’m glad I’m here. Now I see I haven’t wasted my time, or my firm’s money, in coming down here to Buenos Aires.”

The priest glowered. “Who sent you here?” “He is not from the company!” his stepmother croaked.

“This is exactly the sort of fraud I need to clear up,” Ben said, feigning a sense of triumph. “So this Jürgen Lenz of Vienna—he says he is your son, but he is
not
your son?
Then who is he?
”

The priest turned to his stepmother, who looked as if she were about to speak. “Say nothing!” he ordered. “Do
not
answer him!”

“I cannot talk about him!” the old woman said. To her stepson, she added, “Why does he ask me about Lenz? Why do you invite him here?”

“He is a liar, an impostor!” the priest said. “Vienna would send word ahead first before sending a
messenger!” He reached behind him and produced his revolver, aiming it directly at Ben’s forehead.

“What kind of a priest are you?” Ben asked in a hush.
Not a priest. A priest would not put a gun to my head
.

“I’m a man of God who protects my family. Now leave here at once.”

A sudden thought occurred to Ben, the obvious explanation, and he said to the old woman, “Your husband had another family. A son with another wife.”

“You’re not welcome in this house,” the priest said with a wave of his weapon. “Out.”

“
Gerhard Lenz had no children!
” the old woman cried.

“
Silence!
” the priest thundered. “
Enough!
Say nothing more!”

“He pretends to be the son of Gerhard Lenz,” Ben said, half to himself. “Why in the world would he pretend to be the son of…a monster?”

“Stand up!” the priest commanded.

“Gerhard Lenz didn’t die here, did he?” Ben said.

“What are you
saying?
” the stepmother gasped.

“If you don’t get out of here, I’ll kill you,” the priest said.

Ben rose obediently, but looked at the old woman, sunk deep within her easy chair. “The rumors were true, then,” he said. “Gerhard Lenz wasn’t buried in Chacarita cemetery in 1961, was he? He escaped from Buenos Aires, evaded his pursuers—”

“He died
here!
” the old woman said frantically. “There was a funeral! I myself flung dirt on his coffin!”

“But you never saw his body, did you?” Ben said.

“
Out!
” the priest barked.

“Why is he saying these things to me?” she cried.

She was interrupted by the ring of the telephone on a sideboard behind the priest. Without moving his revolver
he reached to his right and snatched up the receiver. “
Sí?
”

He seemed to be listening intently. Ben took advantage of the priest’s momentary inattention to sidle ever so subtly in the priest’s direction. “I need to reach Josef Strasser,” he said to the old woman.

She spat out her reply, “If you’re really sent from Austria, you
know
how to reach him. You’re a
liar!
”

Then Strasser
was
alive!

Ben inched closer to the priest and continued talking to the stepmother. “I myself was lied to—set up!” There was in fact no logic in what he said, not without a fuller explanation, but he wanted only to confuse the old woman, rattle her further.

“That confirms it,” the priest said, hanging up the phone. “That was Vienna. This man’s a fraud.” He looked at Ben. “You lied to us, Mr.
Hartman!
” he said, glancing behind him for an instant, and Ben immediately lunged. He grabbed the priest’s right wrist, the one holding the gun, twisting it with all his strength, and at the same time slammed his other hand into the priest’s throat, forefinger and thumb in a rigid V. The old woman screamed with terror. Caught by surprise, the priest cried out in pain. The revolver fell from his hand and clattered to the floor.

With one immense movement Ben forced the priest to the floor, closing his grip around the priest’s neck. He could feel the bony cartilage of the larynx shift to one side. The man’s cry grew strangled as he sprawled against the tiled floor, his head at an unnatural angle, trying to rear up, trying to reach his free, left hand around, but it was vised beneath his rib cage. He struggled with great strength, gasping for breath. The old woman flung the backs of her hands against her face in a strange protective gesture.

The gun! Must get the gun!

Ben jammed his left hand more forcefully into the man’s throat, and thrust a knee into his stomach, aiming for the solar plexus. The priest’s sudden, involuntary exhalation of breath told Ben that he’d hit the mark. The priest’s dark eyes rolled upward so that only the whites were showing. He was momentarily paralyzed by the blow. Ben snatched the revolver from the floor, swung it around, and shoved it against the man’s forehead.

He cocked the trigger. “Make a move, and you’re dead!”

Immediately the priest’s body fell slack. “No!” he choked out.

“Answer my questions! Tell the truth if you want to live!”

“Don’t, please don’t! I’m a man of God.” “Right,” Ben snapped disdainfully. “How do I reach Josef Strasser?”

“He is—I don’t know—
please
—my
throat!
”

Ben eased the pressure a bit, enough to allow him to breathe and to speak. “
Where’s Strasser?
” he thundered.

The priest gulped air. “Strasser—I don’t know how to reach Strasser—he lives in Buenos Aires, that’s all I know!” A small rivulet of urine appeared on the floor between the man’s legs.

“Bullshit!” Ben shouted. “You give me an address or a phone number, or your stepmother will have
no one
to take care of her!”

“No, please!” the old widow said, still cowering in her chair.

“If—if you kill me,” the priest gasped, “you won’t get out of Buenos Aires alive! They’ll track you down—they’ll do things—you’ll wish—
wish
you were dead!”

“Strasser’s
address!
”

“I don’t have it!” the priest said. “Please! I have no way to reach Strasser!”

“Don’t lie,” Ben said. “You all know each other. You are all tied together in a network. If you had to reach Strasser you have ways.”

“I’m nothing! You kill me, I’m nothing to them! They’ll find you!”

Ben wondered, who were “they”? Instead, he asked: “Who’s Jürgen Lenz?” He pressed the barrel of the gun against the priest’s forehead. There were a few drops of blood; he had broken the skin.

“He—please, he’s powerful, he controls—he owns her house, her property, the man who calls himself Jürgen Lenz—”

“Then who is he really?”

“
Put the gun down and get away from him
.”

The voice—low, calm, Spanish-accented—came from the doorway behind Ben. A tall man stood there holding a sawed-off shotgun. He was dressed in heavy green slacks and a denim work shirt, and he looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, broad-chested and powerful.