man had no idea how he had coped. Neither did he know how the writer’s relationship with his ex-wife had been. He found it hard to imagine that Matt had been more in love with her than he was with Karen. Here was a couple that lived for each other, and their shared experiences at the hands of the Rothmann twins had clearly made the bond between them even stronger.
Sebastian thought back to the births of his own children. Astrid’s had been straightforward, over in a couple of hours, while Roy had been reluctant to emerge into the world and had reduced his wife Emma to a groaning wreck. Which reminded him-he should call Emma and tell her that he wasn’t going to get home much in the immediate future. Since the Hitler’s Hitman murders started, he had seen very little of his family, returning home to Glenmont outside D.C. only to pick up fresh clothes and eat hurried meals. Astrid and Roy didn’t care. They were only interested in hanging out with their friends and indulging in the strange pursuits of modern youth. Emma should have gotten used to the demands of his job, but she had stopped being supportive in recent years, preferring the company of her female friends, even on the limited occasions he was around. Maybe she had a lover. Maybe she thought he had one, but he had never been tempted-not even by his previous assistant, Dana Maltravers. She had been some woman. Her concealed background and prolonged betrayal of the Bureau meant that she would be in federal prison for a very long time.
As the jet began its descent to the airport at Rockford, northwest of Chicago, Sebastian thought of Matt Wells again. He put his hand into the pocket of his suit and felt the box that contained the engagement ring he had procured. It would be the least he could give the Englishman.
Twelve
Kitano looked at me briefly, and then at the floor.
I felt like I was about to faint and throw up at the same time. My vision blurred and my ears rang as if I had suddenly been immersed in freezing, muddy water. I felt a hand on my arm.
‘Mr. Wells,’ the obstetrician was saying, ‘do you need to sit down? Mr. Wells?’
My senses recalibrated themselves.
‘Tell me what happened,’ I said, pulling away from him. I knew his hands had done terrible things. ‘Tell me!’
Kitano looked over his shoulder. Two soldiers were watching me.
‘Leave us,’ the surgeon ordered.
‘Tell me,’ I said, my voice hoarse.
‘Mr. Wells, you should sit…’ He broke off, realizing that he was in danger. ‘All right, have it your way. I’m very sorry, we did what we could, we really tried very hard.’ He looked away. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘My…my son…is he…’ I couldn’t bring myself to say it.
‘I’m afraid so. The umbilical cord was wrapped twice around his neck. We were as quick as we could have been, but…’
I tried to slow my breathing down, but had lost power over my body.
‘When…when will Karen…Karen come round?’ I asked, leaning against the wall.
‘You don’t understand, Mr. Wells,’ the obstetrician said, his face sagging. ‘Your wife…your wife didn’t survive the operation.’
My knees quivered and I slid to the floor. Karen? No, it wasn’t possible. She couldn’t be… I couldn’t even think the word. No, he was mistaken. What did he know? He wasn’t a proper doctor, he was in the army. Karen was just resting, she’d come round soon.
‘I want to see her,’ I said, getting to my feet with difficulty. ‘I need to see her now.’ I stumbled toward the doors that led to the operating theater.
‘Mr. Wells,’ Kitano said, alarm in his voice. ‘You can’t go in there. Your wife…’
I turned back toward him, tears cascading down my face. ‘She’s not my wife!’ I screamed. ‘She’s my partner. We’re getting…we’re getting married after…’
This time my legs gave way as if I’d been shot. I heard a loud crack and then dived gratefully into the void.
People who thought Philadelphia was quaint had their heads up their asses, Gordy Lister thought-or they hadn’t been to the southern part of the city, where he had found a cheap hotel. This was urban blight in a big way, the kind of place the Star Reporter would have described as ‘Yuksville, U.S.A.’ He looked at the copy of the paper that he’d picked up for old times’ sake at a convenience store. He had worked his way up from gofer to senior editorial consultant, the latter meaning Heinz Rothmann’s fixer-a position he still occupied, though the working conditions were kind of different. The paper looked exactly the same as it used to, the new owners knowing a winner when they saw one. They’d got it cheap, as well. The government had closed down as many of Rothmann’s companies and blocked as many of his accounts as they could. Much good it had done them. His employer was still doing what he wanted.
Lister looked through the dirty gauze curtain at the dilapidated tenement across the street. Laundry was hanging from wires strung across window frames and the piercing voices of the poor rang out in several unfamiliar languages. He caught glimpses of people wearing scant clothing despite the chill. The fools had given everything they had, sold their futures to get here. Did they really think it was worth it? What kind of shit-holes had they come from?
Gordy Lister thought back to his own childhood in a trailer park outside Oklahoma City. His father had been a drunk, who rarely showed up. Even though she was hardly a looker, his mother turned tricks while he and Mikey played at the other end of the trailer. Often the door swung open and they saw more than was good for them. Mikey had grown up a hopeless fanny hound, at least until the accident. Not that being legless cramped his style much, or so he claimed on the telephone. Apparently some women were turned on by his stumps.
Ah, Mikey, he thought. You’ll be the death of me. If Rothmann finds out I’ve been calling you and sending you money, I’ll be the Antichurch’s next sacrifice. But what can I do? You’re all I’ve got since AIDS took Mom, not that I cried many tears about that vicious bitch. Pop’s liver swelled up and his skin turned yellow before he died screaming in the emergency room. Who else is there? Certainly not that murdering bastard Rothmann. He keeps me close because he needs me, but the moment he finds someone who can do what I do without cracking wise, he’ll have a hole dug for what’s left of me.
Lister took a slug from the bottle of cheap bourbon on the bed and opened his laptop. It was time for the morning report. He still had his writing skills, honed by years at the Star Reporter, one of the top six supermarket tabloids, with but a passing acquaintance with the truth. Reporters were encouraged to let their imaginations loose. ‘Governor Dates Alien’ had been one of his breakthrough stories. It cost the leader of a Western state his job when it turned out that the alien in question was a) an illegal from Guatemala, and b) a hermaphrodite. The photos of the weird genitalia had cost a lot, but no one cared about that. Circulation soared and Gordy was on his way to the tenth floor in Washington. He looked out of the window again. Philadelphia was the nearest he’d been to D.C. since Rothmann’s organization had been ripped apart by the Englishman Matt Wells.
Maybe that would be the way to distract Rothmann from the absence of on-the-spot information about the professor’s murder-say that he’d seen Wells behind the police line.
Gordy Lister flexed his fingers. No, it was too risky. His boss would lose his cool and do anything to find Matt Wells, even compromise the most precious of his plans. After all, as well as screwing up the plot to kill the President, the Englishman had killed Rothmann’s twin sister. It seemed there was nothing fiercer than a Nazi whose closest relative had been murdered-so much for Hitler’s followers being heartless beasts. Then again, it would be Wells who would end up heartless if Rothmann laid hands on him.
Lister laughed. ‘Matt Wells was involved in the decision to let me go in D.C.,’ he said under his breath. ‘That was a big mistake-no one’s seen him since the cathedral massacre. The Feds probably took him to Gitmo. Rothmann’s been scanning the internet every day for sightings of him, but there’s been nothing. That makes fingering the limey easy. I could say I saw him with that shithead Sebastian and leave the Kraut to draw his own conclusions.’
He tapped out a few lines, then stopped. His lower jaw took a dive. Even he was amazed by this flight of his imagination-what if the Feds had done some conditioning of their own? What if they were using Matt Wells as the
