The atmosphere gradually lightened, but I still felt like I was sitting next to a pair of highly sensitive explosive devices. Then I thought about the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant. The twins may have seen human sacrifices at the camp but, given their condition, I could hardly just ask them that straight out.
“How about the Antichurch?” I said. “Did you go to services?”
“Rituals,” Gwen corrected. “Of course we did. We all did.” Then her expression went blank, as if a shutter had suddenly been closed.
Randy’s gaze stayed down. Versace swore under his breath.
“The Fuhrer,” I said, involuntarily lowering my voice. “Did he have anyone with him when he visited the camp?”
“Of course,” Randy said. “The professor was always with him.”
“This prof got a name?” Versace growled.
The twins shook their heads.
“What did he look like?” Clem asked.
They both smiled.
“No,” Gwen said, “the professor is a woman. She’s tall, like the Fuhrer, and very distinguished. In her sixties, I’d say. Like him.” She gave a sudden laugh. “Of course she is like him. After all, they’re twins. They were plenty of our kind at the camp.”
Now we were getting somewhere. Thomson-the leader of the NANR and eminence grise behind Woodbridge-had a twin sister. Nikolaus A. N. Rothmann, Mengele’s helper, had twin children, a boy and a girl, who would be in their sixties now. But did that mean they were responsible for the murders? I thought about the diagrams, the squares and rectangles that had been left on the victims. Something was stirring in my memory, something I’d seen in the camp.
Then I thought of someone else. Gavin Burdett. Not only was he in Washington, but I’d tailed him to the occult supplies shop in East London. He was a dishonest investment banker with an interest in underage girls. Could he also be responsible for the murders in Washington? If so, how much were the Rothmann twins involved?
Pinker showed the twins into their rooms at his sister’s house-we had decided to use it in case anyone tried to find the detectives at home. Clem told Gwen and Randy that they would be put in a drug rehabilitation program as soon as possible. They seemed happy enough and showed no sign of wanting to be anywhere else, though that probably meant they didn’t need a fix yet. The house had high-security windows and doors, so they’d find it hard to break out when they did, and Versace would be playing nursemaid. Then again, they had been trained how to use weapons at the camp. I didn’t feel good about leaving the detective there on his own, but Clem and I had work to do.
“Hey, Field Goal,” Versace said, as we headed for the door.
I looked round.
“You look after my partner, yeah?”
I nodded. “And you watch yourself with the twins, Vers.”
“Don’t panic. I’ve seen The Boys from Brazil.”
That didn’t reassure me much. I couldn’t remember if the movie had a happy ending or not. As we left, it struck me that the twins maybe didn’t know about their father’s death yet. We would have to tell them later. Considering how dedicated they still seemed to be to their Fuhrer, I wasn’t sure they’d even remember who Richard Bonhoff was.
New York State Trooper Reggie Swan yawned and took a slug of cold coffee. He was on his own in the station in the small town of Grantsville thirty miles from Buffalo, and he was bored rigid. He had always hated the night shift. It was all right in a city, with the hookers and pimps, the drunks and brawlers to keep you busy. In the boonies, it was about as much fun as a teetotaler’s wake.
Then the door opened and Reggie Swan became an overnight celebrity.
“Help you, ma’am?” he said, as the statuesque woman turned to face him.
Her face and clothes were dirty and torn, and her breathing was heavy. “Ma’am?”
The trooper caught her as she fell. He pulled her as gently as he could to a chair and got her some water. After she’d taken a few sips, she was suddenly much more in control of herself.
“I’m Karen Oaten. Detective Chief Superintendent Karen Oaten of the Metropolitan Police, London.”
Reggie Swan stared at the blonde woman and remembered a photo that showed a much cleaner face. It had been in the FBI mis-pers bulletin for weeks.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked, checking her for obvious injuries. He saw none.
“I’ll make it,” she said, with a weary smile. “I need to make some phone calls.”
“I should think you do. I need to make one myself.” He went back to the desk and called his sergeant. The old shithead never liked being disturbed at night, but this time he said he’d be right over. Screw him, Reggie thought. He’s not getting any of my glory. To make sure of that, he called the local TV and radio stations, as well as the Buffalo papers. Then he watched as the woman whom the whole of the FBI had been looking for made her calls from the sergeant’s desk.
For once, the night shift had been a knockout for Trooper Reggie Swan.
Thirty-Nine
“You think we screwed up letting Gordy Lister go?” Clem Simmons asked as he drove toward central Washington.
I shrugged. “Maybe. We had to make a deal with him to make him talk. And he did give us the twins. He’s not stupid. He’d have understood if we made empty promises.”
The detective nodded. “I guess so. I’m not sure we’ll be seeing him again, though.”
I felt the same, but I’d meant what I said to the newspaperman. If we found anything that linked him to Joe’s death, I would get to him, no matter how long it took.
“You sure you want to do this?” Clem asked.
“It’s our only option. You’re never going to get a warrant to search the Woodbridge building.”
“Nope-not unless we find something that ties Thomson or his people directly to the murders.”
He grunted. “Know what I think? Larry Thomson’s got someone in the FBI.”
“Are you serious?”
“Wouldn’t be the first big-ass businessman to buy his way in.”
I thought about that. It squared with the finding of my fingerprints at the two murder scenes. The FBI had taken my prints after Karen’s disappearance. Some asshole from the Bureau could have planted them at the scenes.
“It’s not like they’ve made much progress with the investigation, is it?” Clem said.
“Is their agent in charge trustworthy?”
The detective raised his shoulders. “Peter Sebastian? They call him Dick, as in Dickhead. I’m not sure. He is the deputy head of Violent Crime, so he should know what he’s doing.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He grinned. “I know that. Look, I’ve no idea, man. He’s a conceited bastard, but most of those guys are, even the straight ones.”
We fell silent as we approached the center, the illuminated dome of the Capitol shining like a huge beacon. My heart began to hammer. What we were about to do was as unconstitutional as it got.
Clem parked the car on the street about five minutes’ walk from the Woodbridge building. It was after ten, so there weren’t many people around. I took the bag I’d filled at Versace’s sister’s house and joined the detective on the pavement.
“I could do with a weapon,” I said, still regretting that I’d left all of mine at the hotel.
“You’re not getting my piece.” I was pretty sure he wouldn’t have gone ahead with the scam if I’d been armed with anything more than a handful of screwdrivers. After all, I was still officially under suspicion of murder. “I’ll do the talking,” he said, as we approached the steps outside the building.
“Okay,” I said, smiling nervously. “I’ll just sneak.”
The glass doors were locked. Clem showed his badge to the security guard inside, while I loitered by a pillar. When the door was opened, I kept behind the detective.