“Jesus.”
“It wasn’t so bad. I held a towel in front of me when I used the toilet. If they wanted to watch me in the shower, too bad.”
The FBI man looked up from the notes he was writing on a clipboard. “Brave lady. And that was where you were all this time?”
“Yes. The windows had been boarded up, so I had to rely on my watch to tell the time of day. The date function meant I knew how many days I’d been in captivity, though, to tell you the truth, it still went into a kind of blur. There was no TV or radio, so very soon I felt totally cut off from the outside world.”
“They feed you all right?”
“I got three meals a day. It wasn’t great food, but adequate. I was even given fresh milk twice a day. They would tell me to go into the bathroom and then open the door to leave a tray. The same in reverse when I’d finished. The cutlery and dishes were always plastic and they checked that everything was returned. I know that because I kept a knife once and they realized immediately.”
“Did they ever talk to you or come inside your quarters?”
“Apart from the instructions at mealtimes, which came through a small speaker on the ceiling, no. I didn’t see anyone all the time I was there. At least there were some books to read. I’ve become a great fan of Ayn Rand, not least because she wrote very long novels.”
“You didn’t have any blackouts or times when you woke up feeling woozy?”
“You mean, did they drug me to find out what I knew? No, nothing that I’m aware of.”
Creamer smiled encouragingly. “And how’s your memory?”
“Fine.” She smiled back at him and tried to act like a normal human being. “Is Matt okay?”
The FBI man kept his eyes off her. “Um, yes, I think so. The deputy director will bring you up to speed.”
Karen nodded blankly. She’d been told before she was taken from the camp about her former lover’s involvement in the awful murders in Washington. It had been a shock that her baby’s father was a killer, but she would make sure the child never knew. Matt Wells belonged to the past-that had been made very clear to her.
“I presume all my files are secure,” she said.
“Uh, yeah, they are,” Creamer said, reestablishing eye contact. “We picked them up from your hotel the day after you disappeared. It didn’t look like anything was missing.”
“Good,” Karen said enthusiastically. “I need to get back to work first thing tomorrow morning. I presume my meetings with the Bureau and the Department of Justice will be rescheduled?”
Levon Creamer looked surprised. “We assumed you’d need time to recover.”
“Am I giving you that impression now?”
The FBI man shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
“Please make the arrangements, Levon.”
She watched as he changed to another channel and started talking animatedly. Everything was running smoothly. She was sure the meeting she most wanted would also be scheduled soon.
I sat on the sofa and took another slug of wine, trying to keep my face unreadable as my mind went into over-drive. What were my options? I could give Fraulein Rothmann and her gun-toting daughter a list of invented names, but I had the feeling they were in the loop enough to rumble that plan. Telling them about Pinker would condemn him to death, as may have already happened with Clem. Shit, what was I doing debating the issue? I needed to act right now.
I gagged on the wine, then sprayed it over the table and floor. I coughed hard and started gasping for breath, my hands on my throat. I hoped my face had gone a dark enough shade of red to convince them that I was having some kind of seizure.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I heard Irma Rothmann say. “See if you can help him, Dana. Give me the gun.”
That was progress-she had to be less proficient with firearms than the FBI agent. I kept up the act, pumping my chest up and down like a man who was at death’s door. Then I felt the daughter’s hands under my arms as she tried to turn me onto my side on the sofa. I had my eyes wide-open, but I didn’t focus on her face as she leaned over me.
“Bring some water, Mutti,” Dana Maltravers said, as she kept trying to get me into the recovery position.
This had worked out better than I’d expected. I waited till the mother’s thin form had moved away, then grabbed the younger woman’s shoulders and flipped her onto the table. By the time I made to jump on top of her, she had already rolled away on to the floor. Maltravers knew how to look after herself in a fight. The angled foot that I took on my chin emphasized that point.
“Fuck you, Wells. You just made a terminal mistake.”
Her right leg shot out and the foot hit me again, this time on my cheek. I reeled backward. As I tried to pull myself up, I caught a glimpse of Irma Rothmann.
She had her arms crossed, the pistol pointing toward the floor. It was obvious who she had her money on.
Dana Maltravers stepped onto the table and launched her foot at me again. This time, my reactions were sharper. I leaned to the side and grabbed her knee, then pulled hard. She managed to flatten her hand and deliver a decent chop to my neck as she flew past. I crumpled onto the sofa and then was just quick enough to take her by the hips and shove her over the back. There was no carpet there and I heard a satisfying thud as her head hit the floor. Her mother suddenly looked alarmed and raised the weapon. I scrambled over the sofa and landed on top of Dana Maltravers. She was still conscious but looked dazed. I twisted one of her arms behind her back and then hauled her to her feet, making sure her body was shielding mine.
“Dana!” Irma Rothmann screamed. “Let her go!”
I was fighting for breath. “Drop the gun!” I gasped. “Now!” I looked round my captive’s head.
The older woman was still pointing the pistol toward us.
“No, Mr. Wells,” she said, her eyes colder than a polar bear’s. “If my daughter must be hurt, so be it. The cause is more important than any single person.”
“Mutti!” Maltravers croaked.
“That’ll be your caring Nazi ideology, I suppose,” I said, keeping my head behind my captive’s. “Don’t you just love it, Dana?”
“Let her go!” Fraulein Rothmann screamed. “If I hit her, the bullet will go through to you, as well.”
“So what?” I said, with as much bravado as I could muster. “At least there’ll be one less Nazi in the world.”
I heard a crash at the far end of the room and risked a look. The older woman’s aim was wavering. I shoved her daughter toward her, keeping a tight grip on her. We all three clattered to the floor and I scrabbled for the gun that the impact had driven out of Irma Rothmann’s hand. I got hold of it just as a large pair of men’s shoes appeared in front of me.
“Here,” Clem Simmons said, extending the hand that wasn’t holding his service weapon-its muzzle was directed at Dana Maltravers.
I took the hand and was jerked to my feet. I turned to the two women who were sprawled in front of us.
Clem had taken quite a beating and his jacket was torn. He wiped blood from his damaged lips. “This is a surprise, Special Agent Maltravers,” he said. He glanced at the older woman. “Who’s this?”
“Her mother. Irma Rothmann, Larry Thomson’s twin sister.” That made me think. “Where’s your brother?” I asked her.
She didn’t respond. She was too busy cradling her daughter’s head and speaking to her in German. No doubt she was trying to reassure her that she wouldn’t really have sacrificed her for the cause. It didn’t look like Dana Maltravers was buying it.
“We’d better get out of here, Matt,” Clem said, looking over his shoulder. “I took out three of the fuckers, got them restrained, but there may be more of them around.”
I nodded. We secured the women’s wrists behind their backs with plastic ties and pushed them toward the door. “Did you call for backup?”