Her face and hands had also been smeared with dirt, and it had been rubbed into her hair. She didn’t mind. She wanted nothing but to hear the praise of her superiors after she returned from the city. They had promised that she would have every comfort for the birth, and that a top-level obstetrician and midwife would be in attendance. The child was precious to them-her son was the future and he would grow up surrounded by love and respect. And they had finally told her who the father was. She was looking forward to meeting him. She had to speak to him, but there would be little time. Maybe it would be best that way. Men didn’t respond well to rejection.
Her equipment had been easy to hide about her person. No one would find it suspicious in the least, so she would be allowed to keep it.
The pine trees gradually became smaller and the track softer. They passed through clearings, leaving small huts behind. It struck the woman that this wilderness would be a wonderful place to bring up her son. The rest of the world was full of degenerates and the weak, people who had been brainwashed by television, fashion and pop music. They needed to be woken up.
We left the gorillas to play with their handcuffs and took Gordy Lister to a remote parking place in Rock Creek Park. Gerard Pinker jumped out and blocked the access road with a couple of police cones to make sure we wouldn’t be disturbed.
“What’s this all about, guys?” the newspaperman said, blinking in extreme nervousness. “I mean, you took us by surprise back there…”
“Yeah, it looked that way,” Pinker said. “You didn’t think we knew about that extra place of yours, did you?”
Gordy was looking at me. “Who’s he?”
“Oh, you know me,” I said, with a pleasant smile. “At least, you should do. I’ve been all over the Star Reporter recently.”
Lister squinted. “What?” Then he must have remembered the photo of me that they’d been running. “Matt Wells,” he said, turning to Simmons. “Why isn’t he under arrest?”
“A good question,” Clem said, looking over his shoulder. “But a two-timing piece of shit like you doesn’t get to hear the answer.”
“What do you-”
Lister broke off as Versace jabbed him in the midriff with his fist. “No more questions from you, Gordy. Only answers. Where shall we start?”
I had an idea about that. “Larry Thomson,” I said, watching the newspaperman’s reaction. As I’d expected, he looked very apprehensive.
“I see you know him. So tell us what he does at Woodbridge Holdings.”
The three of us held our eyes on him. He seemed to shrink, but nothing came from his mouth except a damp tongue that flickered like a snake’s.
Vers applied his fist to the prisoner’s belly again. This time he let out a yelp.
“All right, Gordy,” I said, smiling expansively, “let me make it easy for you. I’ll tell you what I know about Woodbridge Holdings.” I gave him an outline of what we knew about the NANR, the camp and their links with Nazism.
“What’s that got to do with me?” he whined when I’d finished. “I don’t know anything about this Nazi revival.”
“Is that right? Do you know a reporter called Joe Greenbaum, Gordy?”
He avoided my eyes and raised his shoulders weakly.
“Is that a yes?” I demanded.
“He…he was blown up, wasn’t he?” Lister said in a small voice. “I saw it on the news.”
“What do you know about that?” I leaned closer. His eyes stayed down, which made me suspicious. “He was my friend, Gordy. And he told me a lot about Woodbridge Holdings.”
I glanced at Clem Simmons. It was time to put the squeeze on Lister big-time. We’d talked about doing it, but he hadn’t been sure it would work.
“How do you think Larry Thomson’s going to feel about you when he hears you’ve spilled your guts to us?”
“What d’you mean?” Lister squealed. “I haven’t said anything!”
“Yet.” I smiled at him, this time malevolently. “Your people killed my friend. You’re going to tell me everything you know or I’ll stick something a lot sharper than a fist in your gut.” I laughed bitterly. “Don’t forget-according to the Star Reporter, I skewered Monsieur Hexie’s kidneys and shoved chopsticks up Crystal Vileda’s nostrils.” I pulled out a pair of chopsticks that I’d got earlier from a Chinese restaurant.
Gordy Lister’s eyes bulged, then he collapsed forward. Versace pulled him up and made him face me.
“All right-all right. Mr. Thomson will never trust me again anyway.”
And then he told us his tale.
Thirty-Eight
Gavin Burdett was sitting in a deep leather armchair facing a large antique desk. A nondescript sedan had set him down on a parallel street after a two-hour drive from Washington. He glanced at the Havana he’d allowed to go out in the ashtray and decided against lighting it again. Larry T. tolerated cigar smoke, but he wasn’t really a fan. Now that the pressure was on, the Englishman didn’t want to make things worse for himself.
The door opened and the tall man walked in, followed by a thin-faced bodyguard wearing a well-cut suit. Burdett immediately stood up, disguising the pain in his knees. He smiled uncertainly.
“Larry, I’m very glad to-” He broke off as the bodyguard walked around the room. He moved a thin rod up and down, scanning for surveillance devices. After a nod from him, the tall man pointed to the door and waited till he and Burdett were alone.
“I’m sorry, Gavin,” he said, in a low, smooth voice. “We can’t be too careful. It appears that one of my confederates has been arrested.”
The Englishman was immediately apprehensive. “Really? How much does he know?”
Larry Thomson smiled. “About you? Absolutely nothing at all.”
“Thank God.” Burdett reached for the crystal glass containing fifteen-year-old malt whiskey.
“He does, however, know rather a lot about other aspects of our operations,” the tall man said, walking behind the desk and sitting down. He waved to Burdett to sit, too.
“Will he talk?”
“Almost undoubtedly.” Thomson took a cigarette from his silver case and lit it. “It’s very difficult to find completely loyal men these days. Particularly as regards what one might call dirty work.”
Gavin Burdett raised his hands. “I don’t want to know.”
Larry Thomson gave another tight smile. “I wasn’t going to tell you. What you know about our overseas interests is enough.” He filled a glass from a carafe of water. “Not that I’ve told you about all of those.”
The Englishman took a large sip of whiskey. “So, what now? Is the woman ready?”
Thomson looked at his guest with pale blue, unwavering eyes. “Apparently so.”
“And you’re going to go ahead with the plan?”
“Have you acquired cold feet?” The tall man’s tone was mocking. “I seem to remember that you were the one who wanted her…how shall I put? Removed from the equation?”
Burdett nodded. “Of course. She declared a personal crusade against me.”
Thomson swallowed water, his Adam’s apple becoming even more prominent. “Why so anxious, then?”
“Because…what if the process isn’t entirely successful? What if she remembers who she is?”
“That’s very unlikely. Our procedures are highly effective.”
Gavin Burdett dropped his gaze. “Not in Matt Wells’s case.”
“As you well know, his treatment was incomplete. Besides, he may still act as planned when the time comes.”
“And what about the occult killings?”
“What about them?” The tall man smiled. “If anything, they have added to the general state of panic in Washington. Our forthcoming operations will make the most of that.”