still see Karen as he grabbed at me, then she disappeared from my view as I hit the floor. When I looked up, the pen had disappeared. The justice secretary was peering down at me curiously.
Peter Sebastian came up. “What’s going on, Matt?” he demanded. “Couldn’t you wait a little longer to see Karen?”
“I thought…I…” I let myself be led away to the side of the room. I was vaguely aware of the speeches being concluded and the noise of conversation increasing. The man who had grabbed me was still holding my arm.
“What did you think?” Chief Owen said, appearing between Sebastian and the big man.
“I thought…” My mind was like mush. I must have been imagining things. Karen was perfectly normal. I looked around, trying to catch sight of her, but I couldn’t see her anywhere.
“You need rest,” Peter Sebastian said. He turned to Chief Owen. “Can I leave him in your charge?”
Owen shrugged. “Okay. I was heading over to the hospital to check on Simmons and Pinker.”
Sebastian nodded. “Why don’t you get him checked out, too?”
By the time Owen and I made it to the door, there was no sign of Karen. I asked a woman with a clipboard where she’d gone.
“Ms. Oaten went with the justice secretary and her people, sir.” She eyed the temporary pass Sebastian had given me on the way in. “Can I help?”
“That’s all right,” Chief Owen said. “I’ll handle this.” He led me toward the elevators.
“But I want to see Karen,” I said feebly, tugging against his grip.
“Let it go, buddy. You can’t mess with the Justice Department.” Owen smiled at me. “Besides, your girl’s a London cop. How’s she going to feel if you screw up a meet with the justice secretary of the United States of America?”
He had a point there. Karen would not be impressed if I messed with her career. So I let him take me down to his car and drive me to the hospital in the northern suburbs. Just before we got there, he got a call. He listened, then cut the connection and glanced at me.
“They found Gwen Bonhoff’s body in the Potomac,” he said. “We’ll have to wait for the postmortem for the cause of death-and we’re a medical examiner short right now-but there’s a potentially fatal chest wound, like you described.”
“What about Rothmann?”
Chief Owen shook his head. “No sign. Let’s just hope the currents sucked him to the bottom. We don’t need motherfuckers like him around.”
He was right there. But as far as I was concerned, no body meant that the Auschwitz doctor’s son was alive and well.
There was good news at the hospital-Gerard Pinker had just come out of his coma. He was still groggy and visitors weren’t allowed, but his prospects had suddenly got a whole lot better. We went to see Clem. He looked tired, but he was in good spirits because of his partner’s first move toward recovery. They took a dive when he heard about Gwen and Rothmann.
“Shit. That girl deserved better.”
“She and her brother stuck a knife in Versace and beat the hell out of you, Clem,” I reminded him.
He shrugged. “Those Nazi scumbags screwed with their brains.” He glanced at me. “What was that word the queen bitch was screaming? Barba-something?”
My head was suddenly filled with the roar of crowds and the thunder of marching men.
“Hey, Matt?” I heard Clem say. “You okay?”
I managed to push aside the confusion. “Yeah,” I muttered.
“Everything you’ve been through is catching up on you, man,” Clem said. “You need to get some rest.”
I sat back in my chair. There was a TV on the wall, images flashing but no sound coming. I made out a large silvery-gray building with three imposing towers. Then the camera moved down to the crowd gathered outside an entrance with a Gothic arch. When the camera zoomed in, I saw that many of the people were elderly and in uniform.
“What’s that?” I asked. I was aware of a quickening throughout my body and a faint, high-pitched sound like a whistle that would normally only be audible to dogs. “What is that place?”
Chief Owen looked up at the screen. “Washington National Cathedral.”
“What about the people?” I said, my eyes locked on the pictures. “Who are they?”
Clem grunted. “They’re our heroes, man.”
I took in shrunken men in wheelchairs, with military caps on their heads and medals on the chests. They were surrounded by proud families in their finest clothes, and most of them were black.
“World War II veterans from the minorities,” Owen said. “The president’s taken a special interest in them.”
“About time somebody did,” Clem said. “They’ll all be dead soon.”
Chief Owen nodded. “That’s why they’re having the memorial service-to acknowledge the men before it’s too late.”
Those last words echoed in my mind-before it was too late. Too late for what? Then I found myself thinking of other things: the gargoyle’s head, the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant, Rothmann’s hatred of what he called subhumans, the Nazis and their war on civilization, Karen…
I stood up. “Did someone mention the president?”
“Yes,” Owen said. “The president and first lady are attending the service.”
“How about the justice secretary?” I asked, my lungs suddenly tight.
The chief shrugged, his eyes widening. “I guess she might be there…I think a lot of the government is going.”
“Jesus,” I said. “Karen.” I moved quickly to the door. “Come on,” I said, looking round at Owen. “She’s in danger, I’m sure of it.”
The two men exchanged glances, then Owen headed toward me.
“Has the memorial service been arranged for a long time?” I asked, as I led him to the elevator.
“Can’t help you there,” the chief said, putting his hand on my arm. “Not my department.”
I tugged myself free. “Answer me this,” I said, stabbing at the call button. “Can you think of a better occasion for a group of Nazis to strike against this country than a service commemorating the role of blacks, Hispanics, Chinese and I don’t know who else in the destruction of the Third Reich?”
Rodney Owen’s jaw dropped. “No, I don’t think I can,” he said. Then he pulled out his phone and started rapidly hitting buttons.
Forty-Five
Washington National Cathedral, the world’s sixth largest, was basking on the summit of Mount St. Alban, the city’s highest point. The late-afternoon sun was reflected strongly by the blocks of Indiana limestone, causing many of the people on site to wear dark glasses. The trees in the fifty-seven acres of gardens that surrounded the building were a picturesque mixture of russet, yellow and brown. The central tower of the structure topped three hundred feet, giving the Secret Service men and Army snipers a fine panorama. To first-time visitors to Washington attending the service, the cathedral was a surprising vision of the medieval, with pointed arches, rib vaults, flying buttresses and stained-glass windows. There were perhaps not enough gargoyles on the walls to achieve the full Gothic effect, but the plentiful decorative pinnacles made up for that. From every gallery and vantage point, personnel in dark fatigues ceaselessly scanned the cathedral vicinity, weapons at the ready. The president and first lady, accompanied by six cabinet members, were expected in thirty-five minutes.
Inside the building, there was an atmosphere of controlled alert. Clergy from the Episcopal Diocese of Washington, dressed in their most formal robes, moved about their duties with studied calm. They were accustomed to state occasions, even though there were more military and plainclothes security people around than they would have liked. This was the house of God, after all, and the United States’ greatest men were commemorated here, with separate bays for presidents and wartime leaders from George Washington to Woodrow
