"I didn't mean to disturb you, sir."
"You weren't disturbing anything. As you can see, Agent Viggiano and I were just clearing up a few… administrative details." His eyes drifted to the gun and badge. "After what went down in Idaho, it's best for him and for us that he sits out the next few months until we get a clear picture of exactly what happened up there. Anyway, it's out of my hands now."
Bailey felt his heart sink. He'd been around long enough to see where this was heading. With twenty-six civilians confirmed dead, the suits in DC were looking for scapegoats. Everyone who'd been up in the mountains that day was going to get sucked in. By the time it was over, he'd be lucky if they gave him a job in the car pool.
"Vasquez tells me you cautioned against opening that door. Is this true?" asked Carter.
"Eh…" Bailey hesitated, the question catching him off-guard. "Yes, sir. I thought I saw someone signaling at us not to come in."
"But Viggiano overruled you?"
"Well…" Bailey wavered. The last thing he wanted was a reputation as a snitch.
"Don't worry, Vasquez gave me the full rundown." Carter smiled, his earlier, rather distant manner melting away. "Said you saved his life. Way I see it, you did a great job up there. A great job. If Viggiano had listened to you instead of… Well, let's just say you did a great job."
Bailey's smile quickly faded at the memory of the body bags arranged on the fresh snow outside the farmhouse like the spokes on a wheel.
"It would have been a great job if we'd saved those people, sir."
"You did the best you could. I can't ask anyone to do any more than that."
"No, sir."
"So where are you taking this next?"
"I'm not sure what you mean, sir." Bailey frowned.
"Viggiano's off the case, but you don't get off so easy. What leads have you got?"
"We've got a composite sketch of our Unsub, based on Hennessy's description."
"Any use?"
"European male. Five ten. Cropped blond hair. Unshaven. About a hundred and ninety pounds."
"That's it?"
" 'Fraid so. And now Hennessy's attorney is arguing that, until he sees a written offer, that's all we'll get."
"A written offer for what in return?" Carter demanded. "I mean, he's not given us much, has he? No ID, no distinguishing marks, just some bullshit story and a name that's probably an alias."
"Blondi?"
"Yeah."
"You know that was the name of Hitler's dog."
"What?" Carter looked nonplussed.
"Hitler's favorite dog was called Blondi."
"You think that might be relevant?"
"Well, so far we've got someone using the name of Hitler's dog, the theft of a Nazi Enigma machine, and the involvement of a neo-Nazi group. It sure doesn't sound like a coincidence."
"You could be right," Carter said. "Let's get everything we can on the Sons of American Liberty and any other extremist groups they might have links to. See if this Blondi surfaces anywhere else. Let's check out the Enigma machine too — see if we can come up with a list of likely buyers."
"Actually, sir, I've already done some work on that." Bailey laid the file he'd been clutching on the desk. "You have?"
"An Enigma machine is a pretty unusual item to steal. I figured that Blondi might be working for a collector or dealer. So I ran down all the major military memorabilia auctions over the last five years and cross-referenced the lists of buyers."
"And?" Carter asked expectantly.
"There are about twenty dealers who account for about eighty percent of the volume."
"I hate to sound negative, but it could take us years to link one of them back to our guy."
"I've narrowed the list down to European dealers, since that's where Hennessy said Blondi was from. That cuts it down to seven."
"Still too many."
"That's why I asked Salt Lake City International to supply security footage for all flights to the cities where those seven dealers are based. I figured Blondi would want to be out within forty-eight hours of picking up the Enigma machine from Malta, so it was worth taking a look through the tapes in case any of the passengers matched our sketch."
"When did you last get some sleep?" Carter asked.
"It's been a long day," Bailey conceded.
"And?"
"One man. Boarded the American flight to Zurich under the name Arno Volker." Bailey opened the file and pointed at a fuzzy still taken from a surveillance tape, then laid the sketch next to it. There was a definite resemblance.
"That could be him," said Carter. "That could be him, all right. Good work."
"Thank you, sir," Bailey said proudly.
"What's your next move?"
"Track down the dealer in Zurich and put him under surveillance," Bailey said confidently. "If Blondi is working for him, the chances are he'll surface there, given that he doesn't know we're on to him yet."
Carter sat back in his chair, as if weighing the merits of Bailey's plan.
"Okay," he said eventually. "I want you to run with this."
"Sir?"
"It's unusual, given your inexperience, but I'm a big believer in giving responsibility to those who show they can handle it. I'm going to hook you up with an Agency buddy of mine in Zurich. Ben Cody."
"You want me to fly to Zurich?" Bailey couldn't believe what he was hearing. A few minutes ago he'd thought Carter was going to ask for his badge.
"Let's be clear — I'm not cutting you loose out there. I just want you to observe and report back to me on anything you learn or see, you got that? Nothing happens without the green light from me."
"Yessir. Thank you, sir." Bailey hoped that the slight tremor in his voice was not as obvious as it sounded to him.
Carter leaned across the desk and shook his hand. "By the way," he said as he turned to leave, "what did you say this dealer's name was?"
Bailey consulted his notes before answering. "Lasche. Wolfgang Lasche."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
It was a Friday night and the station was busy. A large group of teenage snowboarders were waiting in the middle of the concourse for their train to appear on the overhead monitors. They were huddled around a boom box as if it was a campfire, the continuous thump of its bass drowning out the occasional shrill whine from the PA system.
The cafe that Tom had chosen afforded him a good view of the platforms as commuters spilled off the trains on their way home. Settling into a chair strategically positioned under a heat lamp, he ordered a strong black coffee from the bored-looking waiter. This was as good a place as any to kill time. But no sooner had his coffee arrived than his phone rang. It was Turnbull.
"Any news?" said Turnbull, clearly in no mood for small talk. That suited Tom just fine. Theirs was a working relationship, a transaction based around a shared need and simple convenience that would end as soon as they both had what they wanted.
"Yeah. But none of it makes any sense."
Tom summarized Lasche's account of the Order of the
Death's Head and its disappearance in the dying days of the war.
"How does that help us?" Turnbull's response echoed the conclusion Tom himself had reached. "What's a Nazi secret society got to do with all this?"
"Beats me. I feel I know less now than when I started. And I still don't see what Renwick or Kristall Blade's angle on all this is."
"Didn't Lasche come up with anything else?"
"Not much. Just that the badge we found on Weissman's cap was the symbol of the Order. And that some SS officers had their blood group tattooed on their inner arms. If Weiss-man had tried to disguise his so he could pass it off as a prison tattoo, it would explain why your forensics people had a problem reading some of the numbers."