‘What now?’ Mary asked, as I pulled up at a pay phone.
‘I’m calling the FBI. You can make a run for it if you like, but you haven’t got anything to hide. I won’t tell them about you and Gordy.’
She looked around, taking in the clapboard houses and the almost deserted main street. ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll back up whatever you say.’
I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be that easy. There was a lot she didn’t know, and Peter Sebastian would go through my story with a fine-tooth comb. I got out and headed for the phone, catching another glimpse of the rucksack. If I wanted to find out who had hired Abaddon, and who was behind the camp and the Hades complex, I needed to see what else I could find in the laptop.
Ah, fuck it, I thought. I was tired and I was hurting inside. I’d turn the computer over to the Feds and let them work it out. Mary was right. It was time to be straight. There had been too many secrets and lies.
Arthur Bimsdale had been lying on the sofa in Peter Sebastian’s office, completely unconcerned by what he had been ordered to do with his boss, when his cell phone sparked into life. He glanced at the clock on the wall. 7:20. It was time to start the first working day of his new life. Five minutes later, he had registered the news from Texas, spoken to the Acting Director of Violent Crime (an over-the-hill bureaucrat who hadn’t even gotten into the office yet), and arranged a Bureau plane to fly him to Waco. He would be picked up there by an agent from the Dallas field office, which was liaising with the Houston team.
In the car to the airport, Bimsdale ran through what had happened in the last twelve hours. Although he had begun to realize that Sebastian was acting inappropriately, the speed with which events had taken place had come as a surprise. The secret training given to CIA operatives working inside other government agencies had stressed that nothing might happen for long periods, but also that everything could change in the space of a few hours. When he’d been recruited at Yale by the Agency (he’d never got used to calling it the Company, as the old hands did), he had been happy to be included in the so-called Double Helix branch-operatives whose first loyalty was to the CIA, but who would take career positions elsewhere. He was never bothered by the idea that, technically, he was a turncoat. The country’s security took priority over all other considerations.
He looked at the Potomac as it slid seaward under the George Mason Memorial Bridge. That water was where Peter Sebastian’s grip on the Rothmann case had begun to loosen. If the Nazi conspirator had been found after jumping from his boat into the Anacostia River, things would have been very different. The attack on the President would probably have gone ahead-it was unclear whether the conditioning program developed by Rothmann’s sister could be reversed on the spot, and Rothmann himself might have refused to give such a command. But subsequently, if he had been in custody, so many complications could have been avoided. The Agency would have found a way to take charge of Rothmann, probably arguing that he was technically a foreigner because his father had been illicitly allowed into the U.S. (by the CIA itself, but never mind-there had been orders from the White House). He would have revealed all he knew about the conditioning program, whether he wanted to or not-modern truth drugs were very effective-and his infantile Antichurch would have been terminally disrupted.
As it was, Sebastian had been reduced to using the clearly unstable Englishman, Matt Wells. From the little he had been told earlier, there had been a slaughter at a facility that should never have come to light and Heinz Rothmann was dead, which was hardly the optimal result. It was unclear whether Wells had killed him as threatened. He should never have been employed to find Rothmann, given what had happened to his partner and their son.
Arthur Bimsdale sat back in his seat as the terminal loomed, aircraft speeding skyward like his career.
Thirty-Four
After I spoke to the special agent in charge in Houston, I went back to the SUV and booted up the laptop- fortunately its battery still had some juice. I had realized I couldn’t just let things lie. I remembered that Sara had mentioned her broker, Havi, who had been in contact with Abaddon.
‘What are you doing?’ Mary asked.
‘Trying to find out who was behind the Hitler’s Hitman killings.’ Sara had left a file on the desktop containing her broker Havi’s email address. I considered sending him a message, but I reckoned he’d be too smart to let me get anywhere near him. I could hardly ask who had contracted Abaddon and expect a straight answer. Then I had another thought. I checked that the wireless connection was functioning and sent a message to my friend Roger van Zandt, a computer expert, in London-my memory was as erratic as ever, unable to provide my dead son’s name, but full of less essential data. I asked Rog to find out if a mailing address had been registered for the email account. It was a long shot but, even if Havi had given a bogus address, Rog might be able to follow the routing to the real location.
‘Why are you doing this, Matt?’ Mary asked, when I shut down the computer. ‘Surely the FBI can handle things from here.’
I’d thought about that. In principle, they could, but Rothmann had managed to get his niece close to Peter Sebastian, so I wasn’t convinced. There was also the fact that I was on my own, with nothing else to do with my life. I hadn’t been able to avenge myself on Rothmann and I felt seriously unfulfilled-someone still had to pay for what had happened to Karen and our son.
Mary touched my hand. ‘Matt, you have to let them go.’
I wasn’t impressed that my feelings were so obvious, but she was right. I could still see the ones I’d lost, but their faces were blurred and they no longer came close. Soon the darkness would swallow them up completely. I had no idea how I’d cope then.
I forced myself back to the small town in Texas, which was showing more signs of activity now. I had a decision to make. Either I handed the laptop over with the rest of the gear, or I kept it from the FBI. I looked at my watch. It was nearly 8:30. The advance guard from the Dallas office would be arriving at the camp soon. I decided on a compromise.
A mile before the turnoff, I stopped. I put the computer in the rucksack and stashed it behind a tree at the roadside.
‘I presume I didn’t see that,’ Mary said, with a weak smile.
‘You presume right, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course I don’t, Matt. After all we’ve been through…’
That was some kind of invitation. I didn’t respond. Mary was a good woman, but I had nothing to give her.
We came over the rise of a low hill and saw a line of stationary vehicles with flashing lights. There was a roadblock in front of them. I stopped and identified myself and Mary. We were told to get out of the vehicle by a uniformed police officer. There was a clutch of plainclothes officers at the junction.
‘Is that yours, sir?’ the officer asked, pointing at the Kalashnikov in the backseat of the Highlander.
‘I borrowed it.’
The next few hours passed in a blur of questions, familiar and unfamiliar faces, and body bags. Colonel Singh, temporary dressings on his legs, seemed to be in pretty good spirits, even though he had lost at least half his men. He eyed Major Al-Haq belligerently when the Pakistani troops passed close by, but both kept their real disapproval for the men from the camp. Not many of them were unscathed, though I saw the bulky man who had taken orders from Apollyon pass by under guard, one arm drenched in blood. He was still wearing the cap, but the badge had been removed-I wondered by whom. I remembered the figure holding the snakes- Hercules, the invincible warrior who had descended to Hades. What was the significance of that?
‘Mr. Wells.’
I looked round. ‘Special Agent Bimsdale.’
He took in the scene. ‘Quite a major incident.’
‘You could say that. You should call the CIA. Someone needs to keep the peace between those Indians and Pakistanis.’
The young man gave me a curious look. ‘I’ve been receiving updates on the plane. I’m satisfied that we can handle everything.’
