Doctor Jack Notaro had been sculling on the Schuylkill River. Despite the chill of the December morning, he enjoyed himself greatly. It was still dark when he left his apartment north of the university to run to the boathouse, but by the time he lifted the long craft onto the water, a gray dawn was permeating Philadelphia, blurring the lights of the buildings on the eastern shore.
Jack spent an hour alternately pitting himself against the current and feeling the thin hull race along with the flow. He remembered early mornings on the Isis in Oxford, the college eight which he stroked being put through its paces before the bumping races. Worcester had been head of the river in both Hilary and Trinity terms, and he’d been approached to try out for the Blue boat. He declined the chance of rowing against Cambridge on the Thames, even though he had dreamed about it. Work had to take priority in the second year of his post-graduate degree-that was a requirement of his scholarship. Besides, it was either give up competitive rowing or cut back on his dalliances with the university’s most eye-catching women. The first form of physical activity stood no chance.
Sitting in his office in the University of Philadelphia later that morning, Jack didn’t regret the choice he’d made. He knew himself too well. There were only two serious interests in his life-women and researching the full horror of fascism in Italy during the Second World War. Thirty-five now, his muscular six-foot-three frame and rugged looks still attracted more doe-eyed female post-graduates than he could handle. He drew the line at undergraduates-too much like jailbait. He managed his workload well, despite the distractions. His books and articles had been well received, except by the odd right-wing academic and the usual crazy extremist groups. He was hoping to make full professor in a year or two, and generally life was good. Even his mother, eighty-eight and as spirited as ever, had got off his case, accepting that he wasn’t going to get married any time soon.
The rest of the day went well. His current girl, a willowy third-year PhD student from New York named Alicia Finn, had dropped by on her way to the airport. She was attending a conference in San Francisco on gender representations in war writing and would be away for five days. Jack gave her something to remember him by: he locked his door, pulled down her panties and took her from behind over his desk. After she left, he found that she had deposited a pool of saliva on his copy of Michaelis’s Mussolini and the Jews. That made him smile.
Jack Notaro got back to his apartment on 38th Street around seven. He was in a rush to get showered and changed. He was meeting Professor Norma Winston, the head of the history faculty, for dinner at an Italian restaurant in the Old City and he didn’t want to be late. He had high hopes of gaining her support for his latest research project. He also reckoned there was a good chance of getting her into the sack. Although Norma was in her fifties, her recent divorce had turned her into a sex machine. She had a thing for even younger men, but Jack was still betting on himself to score.
That was why he didn’t notice that the drapes in the living room had been drawn shut, or that a hook had been inserted into the ceiling. He did see the briefcase that was open on the dining table but, a second later, lost contact with his senses and surrendered to the eternal dark.
Eight
After a display of reluctance, Peter Sebastian agreed to buy the ring. I told him I’d email him the description and cost. The problem was that neither I nor Karen had any source of funds-the Justice Department had frozen our credit cards and bank accounts. Sebastian said he would look into the situation, but in the meantime would pay for the ring himself. I was impressed.
‘So what about these murders?’ I asked, as we approached the labs, our feet ringing out on the icy paving stones.
The Fed played dumb.
His assistant craned his head forward to look at me in the orange light from the lamps overhead. ‘Which murders, Mr. Wells?’
‘Those three hate crime killings,’ I said. ‘Do you need me to list the victims’ names and locations?’
‘You can’t expect us to talk about ongoing investigations,’ Bimsdale said, glancing at his boss.
‘Even when they might be connected to Heinz Rothmann?’
‘What makes you say that?’ Sebastian demanded.
‘Do you have many other suspects?’
‘As Arthur here said, we’re not going to discuss that.’ Sebastian upped his pace.
‘Touchy, isn’t he?’ I said to Bimsdale.
‘You couldn’t possibly expect me to comment.’
I got the impression that the young agent was less of a fool than he looked. I was also intrigued by his boss’s reluctance to talk about the murders. It didn’t square with his continued interest in Karen and me.
By the time we caught up, Sebastian was on his cell phone.
‘Where? All right, I’ll fly there immediately. Describe the scene.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Shit. Keep me advised and inform local law enforcement that we’re on our way.’ He ended the call and turned to Bimsdale. ‘Come on, we’re going to the airport.’
‘So soon,’ I said.
Sebastian gave me a sharp look. ‘Dr. Rivers is waiting for you. I’ll be in touch.’
‘Where has the Nazi murderer struck this time?’
‘Philadelphia, if you must know,’ he said, moving away.
‘I’ll be looking out for you on the news,’ I called after them.
I hadn’t seen Sebastian so spooked since Washington National Cathedral.
‘Ah, there you are, Mr. Wells,’ said Rivers, after a white-coated young woman opened the door of his office. ‘This is Dr. Brown.’
I looked at her and tried not to laugh. She had ice-blond hair tied into a bun, and a complexion so pale that blue veins were visible around her eyes and jawline.
‘Hello.’ I stuck out my hand. ‘I’m Matt.’
Dr. Brown stared at my paw as if vicious claws might be concealed beneath the skin. Her grip was cool and firm.
‘Matt,’ I repeated. ‘Not Wells.’
‘My first name is Alexandra.’ She gave me a thin smile. ‘You can call me Dr. Brown.’
This time I did laugh. ‘Fair enough. I’ll win you round in the end.’
Rivers stood up. It occurred to me that I had no idea what his first name was. Red? Running?
‘It’s Lester,’ he supplied, as if he’d read my thoughts. ‘I’m not fond of it. Shall we proceed?’
‘My finger is twitching on the trigger.’
‘Very droll, Mr. Wells, but inappropriate. Dr. Brown will explain what we have in store for you.’
I looked at the woman in white. She opened the silver file she was carrying and started to talk, her voice curiously breathless.
‘The Brown Disassociation Process makes use of advanced neuropharmacology, music and language, all calibrated to the individual patient, to induce a state of deep tranquility. The patient’s responses are used to establish an even more profound condition of disassociation, during which data stored in parts of the subconscious beyond all alternate forms of artificial access can be brought to the surface. Such data can subsequently be replaced-’
‘You’re going to brainwash me again,’ I said, stepping forward.
The gorilla in camouflage gear watching through the open door made a similar movement, raising a Taser.
Rivers brushed past me. ‘It’s all right, Wayne. Please.’
It wasn’t the first time I’d noticed the scientist’s distaste for weapons. It didn’t stop him using words to attack me in the glass room.
Dr. Brown stood motionless, her lips tightly pressed together.
‘Well, you are, aren’t you?’ I reiterated.
‘Certainly not, Mr. Wells.’
‘Matt.’
She looked uncomfortable for a few seconds. ‘Oh, very well. Matt. I have carefully reviewed Dr. Rivers’s records and am confident that the treatment I have mapped out for you will be both safe and effective.’
‘I see. And how many patients have benefited from this safe and effective treatment, Alexandra?’