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 Fuhrer’s sister.
Forty-Three
“You 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 Fuhrer 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 tete-a-tete.
“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 Fuhrer.
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.
