‘Matt?’ Rothmann took hold of my chin with the latex-covered fingers of one hand. ‘Come back to me.’
The command was irresistible. I opened my eyes immediately, my whole body stiffening as if I was coming to attention.
‘Yes, my Fuhrer.’
Jesus, did I say that? I really had been conditioned.
Rothmann took his hand away and stepped back. ‘That’s better.’ He looked at his watch, a curiously old-fashioned silver thing. ‘Twenty-three hours have passed since we liberated you and put you back through coffining. What do you remember?’
So I had been subjected to the drugs and the machine that robbed people of their souls. ‘Nothing,’ I said, which was the truth. The fact that I was still able to reason with myself showed that the conditioning process hadn’t been fully completed. Yet.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘It is gratifying that my late sister’s process has remained deep in your subconscious, waiting for enhancement. You have been good enough to describe the measures taken by the FBI’s scientists to counteract the conditioning. It would appear they have been-how shall I put it? — rather deficient.’
I let him believe that. The fact was, I had no idea how long I’d be able to fight the process.
‘Ah, come in,’ Rothmann said, turning to his left. ‘Our friend is awake.’
The familiar face of Gordy Lister came into view. He seemed to have lost weight and there were dark rings round his eyes.
‘Hey, asshole,’ the small man said. ‘Bet you hoped you’d never see us again.’
I was submissive without wanting to be, but whatever look was on my face enraged him. He moved his hand forward rapidly and grabbed my throat.
‘Whaddya know about my brother?’ he demanded, squeezing with surprising strength.
I tried to place his brother, but the pain made that impossible.
‘Let him go!’ Rothmann ordered.
That had an immediate effect. I panted for breath.
‘Sorry,’ Lister said, his eyes avoiding the other man’s.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘Sorry, Master,’ the small man said, with a degree of reluctance. So, Rothmann’s megalomania hadn’t decreased since I’d last seen him.
‘Answer him, Matt,’ Rothmann commanded.
I felt the tingling throughout my body again as the conditioning kicked in. I recited the report about Lister’s brother being killed in a hit-and-run incident in Florida.
‘Is that it?’ Lister said, clearly disappointed.
I nodded. ‘There were no witnesses.’
‘No witnesses, my ass. You think people are dumb enough to talk to the Feds about a hit?’
‘It was a hit?’ I tried to disguise my curiosity.
‘Oh, yeah. Some bitch with short blond hair deliberately ran him down. You sure you don’t know anything more about it?’
I glanced at Rothmann. He was following the exchange with interest. That was hardly surprising, since an attack on Lister’s brother might well have been an indirect attack on him. But I didn’t care about that-what did worry me was the reference to the woman with short blond hair. Could she be-?
‘I’ll take that as a no, then,’ Gordy said, frowning at Rothmann. ‘Our boy here’s going to need some more sessions. His brains are scrambled to shit.’
He was right, but not in the way he thought. My thought processes were all over the place. Where was Quincy? Had he completely lost track of me? Had Rothmann managed to cancel out the hatred I felt for him in under twenty-four hours? Was I going to be turned into one of his brainwashed killers? Had Sara been one of the women in Maine? How long would it be until she found me wherever I was now?
‘Oh, by the way,’ Rothmann said, ‘you told me earlier what happened to our former subject Karen Oaten and your son.’ He gave a short, punctilious bow. ‘My sympathies.’
That was enough to bring back everything I had felt about the Nazi fucker. I was going to rip his heart out, no matter how many times I was coffined.
Peter Sebastian had planned to spend the morning in the J. Edgar Hoover building. He got in before the Washington Beltway filled up and was surprised to find Arthur Bimsdale already installed in the office.
‘Morning, sir,’ his assistant said, with great enthusiasm.
Sebastian gave him a weary nod. He had quarreled with his wife the night before and ended up sleeping in the guest room, so Bimsdale’s good cheer was as welcome as a cup of acid. The problem was, the young agent had come up with a potentially useful lead. They had been looking into Heinz Rothmann’s companies since the massacre at the cathedral, but even the financial crime experts had been unable to identify all his backers-he had used a London-based investment bank to create an impenetrable web of foreign and offshore companies around his U.S. operations.
‘How can you be sure about this?’ Sebastian asked, after reading the report.
‘I have a friend in Immigration. Also, I called the Willard. Sir Andrew is there until Friday.’
‘I hope they haven’t passed on that we’re interested in him.’
‘No chance. I said I worked for Senator Austiner-I saw from the latter’s schedule that they’re lunching on Thursday.’
Sebastian shook his head. ‘I don’t want to know the details. All right, Sir Andrew Frogget is chairman of Routh Limited. He’s been personally involved in dealings with Woodbridge Holdings, Rothmann’s holding company. The London Metropolitan Police have already questioned him at length, in the presence of FBI representatives, and got nowhere. What makes you think he’ll break the banker’s confidence now?’
‘The recent killings. If you tell him Rothmann’s involved, you’ll bring him around, sir, I’m sure of that.’
‘Are you?’ Sebastian said icily. ‘As far as I recall, we have no direct evidence that Rothmann is involved in the Hitler’s Hitman killings.’ On the other hand, he thought, there had been no major developments in any of the four cases and Matt Wells hadn’t made contact for over twenty-four hours. Things were looking bad-maybe a bit of lateral thinking was what he needed. Bimsdale put a folder down on the desk like a poker player with an unbeatable hand.
Sebastian opened it. ‘Nice, Special Agent,’ he said, riffling through the color photos. ‘Very nice.’ They showed the Routh employee Gavin Burdett as he looked after he’d been dragged from the Anacostia River, ironically during the search for Rothmann himself. It hadn’t been easy to identify him, but his brother found a small scar on his ankle. ‘All right, let’s give it a try.’
It wasn’t much after eight when they got to the hotel. They were hoping that the English gentleman wouldn’t have already left. That was confirmed by the duty manager, who looked concerned when they showed their ID, but gave them the relevant room number without delay. Sebastian told him not to let Sir Andrew know they were on their way up.
The Englishman showed neither surprise nor concern when they identified themselves and asked them to make themselves comfortable. He was wearing a hotel robe and had a towel round his neck. The suite was large and luxurious.
‘Lucky you caught me, actually,’ he said, in the effortless drawl Sebastian had noted before in upper-class Brits. ‘I went out for a run.’
Bimsdale couldn’t contain himself. ‘You were captain of the Cambridge University athletics team.’
Sir Andrew smiled. ‘Several decades ago.’ He wiped his patrician face and smoothed back ash-blond hair that was longer than the average banker’s. ‘Now, let me guess. You’re here about Jack Thomson, also known as Heinz Rothmann.’
‘That’s correct, sir,’ Sebastian said, glancing at his assistant to keep him quiet. ‘Have you heard about the murders that-’
‘I do read the papers,’ Frogget interrupted. ‘As far as I can gather, there’s nothing to tie them to Jack. It’s all-’
‘The FBI will make that judgment, Sir Andrew,’ Sebastian said, reluctant to cede control of the dialogue. ‘There’s every chance your former client will be connected to these horrific killings.’ He leaned forward across the ornate table. ‘Do you really want your bank to be painted with the blood of innocent victims-people, I might add, who worked tirelessly against injustice and intolerance?’