At last.
The woman was young-around thirty. She had short brown hair and a face that I would have found alluring if she hadn’t been pointing a matte black pistol at my chest. She was wearing a black trouser suit and a white blouse.
“Matt Wells,” she repeated. “Welcome. We’ve been expecting you.” She waved me inside with the gun. “Please don’t do anything stupid. I’m one of the best shots in the country.”
The air of certainty with which she made that statement struck me. Did she shoot professionally?
The small hallway opened into a huge room that must have taken up half of the penthouse. The lights of Washington spread across an enormous picture window. Pieces of antique furniture were dotted about the carpeted floor like elephants on the savannah. The works of art on the walls were large and looked both genuine and somewhat familiar.
“Over there,” the woman said, pointing to a pair of sofas arrayed in an L-shape by the window. As I approached, another woman got up and turned to face me. She was tall and gray haired, with a striking aquiline nose. I caught the resemblance to Larry Thomson immediately.
“Mr. Wells, what a pleasure,” she said, with old-fashioned politeness.
“I wish I could say the same, Ms. Thomson.” I sat down without being invited.
The woman smiled humorlessly. “I don’t use the surname my brother decided on.” She offered me a cigarette from a silver case.
I raised my hand to decline and saw the younger woman’s pistol follow the movement. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite,” I said, reaching for the open bottle of red wine on the table and pouring myself a glass. The last thing I was going to do was show these Nazis any respect.
“That is debatable,” the Fuhrer’s sister said, sitting down opposite me. She was wearing a gray trouser suit that was considerably better cut than the uniforms at the camp. “We have read your books and done additional research. We know exactly what you’re capable of. You have escaped from us once already.” She raised her glass. “Bravo.”
The young woman smiled. “I can assure you that you won’t escape again.” She moved behind the older woman and I saw that the line of her jaw was almost identical, but she had escaped the beak of a nose.
“Mother and daughter,” I said. “Where’s Larry, to complete the happy family?”
“Otherwise engaged,” the seated woman said. “You can call me Irma if you like.”
“I don’t,” I said, swallowing what was a very good Merlot. “You were born Fraulein Rothmann and that’ll do for me. Or did you take your husband’s name?”
They both laughed.
“I do not have a husband anymore, Mr. Wells,” said the concentration-camp doctor’s daughter. “A necessary phase so that I didn’t remain childless, but he is long gone. He had the right breeding, but he was weak. Of course, I never took his name.”
I hoped the poor guy had survived the encounter. “What about you?” I said to the younger woman. “I’m guessing you have an anglicized name.”
“Correct.”
I waited, and then laughed. “But you don’t care to share it with me. All right, let’s try a different tack. You’re comfortable with that pistol and by your own admission you’re a champion shot. The Glock semiautomatic is standard law-enforcement issue. So what are you? A local cop or a Fed?”
“Everybody hates a smart-ass,” the woman said, aiming the pistol at my groin.
“It’s all right, Dana,” the older woman said. “There’s no reason to be coy.” She turned to me. “Mr. Wells, this is Special Agent Dana Maltravers of the FBI violent-crime team. She’s been working very hard to find you.”
I remembered Clem having mentioned that name. “You work with Peter Sebastian?”
The young woman looked surprised, which was what I wanted.
“Could it be that you’re the one who made sure my prints were at two of the occult-murder scenes?”
I seemed to have scored another hit, though the FBI agent was still as cold as a glacier. I needed to antagonize her more, make her drop her guard. “Interesting name,” I said. I had always been fascinated by what people were called and used to spend hours with encyclopedias on the subject. Fortunately, that part of my memory seemed to be accessible. “Dana is the feminine form of Daniel, isn’t it? Rather a Jewish name for your sort, don’t you think?”
“It was chosen deliberately,” she said, glancing at Fraulein Rothmann. “To divert suspicion.”
“It certainly worked for me,” I said, with an ironic smile. “As for Maltravers, well, mal is evil, so that seems appropriate.” Their faces were stony. “And travers means a crossing, doesn’t it? Particularly an oblique one.”
“You’ll soon be wishing you never crossed me, Wells,” the young woman said, raising the Glock to my face.
I tried to ignore that. “Oblique as in underhand or askew,” I continued. “Like your sense of ethics?”
“That will do!” Fraulein Rothmann had finally showed some emotion. “What we need from you is a list of all the people with whom you have shared information about Woodbridge Holdings, my brother, the camp or anything pertaining to it.” She laughed sharply. “And if you’re waiting for your Negro detective friend to rescue you, don’t bother. He has been restrained and will shortly be on his way to the river.”
My stomach pole-vaulted.
Jesus, Clem. What had I got him into?
Forty
Karen Oaten sat back in her seat in the FBI helicopter, swallowing hard as the machine took off. She had her hands over the bulge in her midriff, worried that the safety belt and the movement of the helicopter would disturb her child. Then she relaxed as the lights of the small town below faded into the night. All would be well. Her leaders had given their personal assurances.
“Everything okay?” The voice in the headphones was tinny.
“Yes, Levon.” She smiled at the occupant of the seat next to her.
“So, do you want to give me a rundown of what happened?”
Karen paused. Levon Creamer was the FBI man who had looked after her when she had arrived in Washington. He was chief of the financial-crime department, a thin, balding man in his mid-forties, whose manner was more that of an accountant than a law-enforcement agent. She was confident enough about the story that she had learned in detail, but she wasn’t sure recounting it in the helicopter would do it justice.
“I don’t really know, Levon. I came round on a roadside and started walking. I suppose I was lucky there was a policeman in that place.”
“Your captors may have put you in the neighborhood deliberately. Hey, Karen, are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
His concern touched her, though she knew he really only wanted to know the details of her kidnapping. A doctor had checked her before the helicopter arrived, so Creamer knew her medical status. Maybe he was worried about the baby.
“I’m fine,” she said. “And so’s the little one.”
“Good. You’ve had a hell of an ordeal. Tell me about it.”
“To be honest with you, I don’t remember very much. I was lying down in the Shenandoah Valley and suddenly everything went dark. Some kind of hood was over my head. I was carried to a vehicle and driven for a long time-I’d say at least four hours. I tried to talk, but a male voice told me to shut up if I wanted…if I wanted to keep my baby.” She paused for effect.
Levon Creamer waited silently for a respectable time. “Was the guy American?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t tell you what accent he had.”
“Then what?”
“Well…I’m sorry to say, I got very frightened. Eventually I…I couldn’t control my bladder any longer…they laughed when they saw what I’d done. There were two…two men.”
“The bastards.”
“Yes. Finally the vehicle stopped and I was hauled out. The hood stayed on my head until I was inside. After a time, I realized I was on my own and I took it off.” She paused again. “I actually laughed when I saw where I was. It was like a bedroom out of a Doris Day film, all frilly bedcovers and pastel wallpaper. I went to the door. Of course, it was locked and very solid. At least there was an en suite bathroom, but the door had been taken off. It didn’t take me long to spot the cameras in every corner of the bedroom and bathroom.”