Frogget poured himself a glass of orange juice from the tray on the table and gestured to the others to help themselves. ‘Very good, Mr. Sebastian, very good. But I’m afraid Routh Limited has plenty of clients with-shall we say? — unsavory profiles. Client confidentiality is paramount to us.’
‘How about future business prospects in the most powerful country in the world?’ Sebastian said, trying a preliminary scare tactic. ‘Rothmann and his people tried to kill the President of the United States. Do you seriously want to go against us on this?’
The Englishman poured himself more juice. ‘You really should try this-it’s fresh.’ He looked at them both. ‘No? Very well. Listen, Mr. Sebastian. I should have our lawyer in here, but I’m willing to cut you some slack over this unannounced visit. However, once and for all, I am not able to discuss Woodbridge Holdings.’
Sebastian turned to his assistant, who took out a file and opened it in front of the Englishman.
‘Good God,’ Frogget said, his face whitening. ‘Is this-’
‘Your colleague and friend Gavin Burdett?’ Sebastian said harshly. ‘Who else? You know who killed him.’
‘I most certainly do not,’ Sir Andrew said, leaving the photos spread across the table.
‘Or had him killed.’ The senior FBI man stood up and went over to the windows. The sun was glinting on the glass of the capital’s buildings. ‘Sir Andrew, do you by any chance have an interest in devil worship?’
The Englishman’s chin jerked up, but he did not grace the question with an answer.
‘Your man Burdett did.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘He was in deeper with Rothmann than you think. You know about the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant, of course.’
Frogget’s lips twisted. ‘Infantile lunacy. I can’t believe Jack would be involved.’
‘You’d better believe it. It’s your worst nightmare. Routh Limited has been working for a Nazi Satanist.’
Sir Andrew got to his feet. ‘We do not judge the political and religious beliefs of our clients.’ He glanced down at the photos and shook his head. ‘It won’t do, gentlemen. Really, it won’t. I have rights. You can’t treat me like some tatterdemalion drug dealer.’
‘They have rights, too,’ Sebastian pointed out. ‘What you’ve got is contacts.’
‘Which I’ll be certain to use. Will that be all?’
‘Leave the photos of Mr. Burdett, Special Agent.’
As they approached the door, Arthur Bimsdale directed his gaze at the Englishman. ‘Good day to you, sir,’ he said. ‘I hope you find a suitable bodyguard.’
‘What bodyguard?’ Frogget said, his eyes widening.
‘Oh, I assumed you’d be hiring one,’ Bimsdale replied. ‘You see, we’ll be posting on the Bureau’s website that you helped us this morning.’
As they walked to the elevator, Sebastian turned to him. ‘Jesus, Arthur, way to go.’
Bimsdale looked like a puppy whose belly was being stroked. ‘He was in the British army,’ he said diffidently. ‘That would explain why the photos didn’t really shock him.’
‘Now you tell me.’
Abaddon had stood on the Discovery’s brakes a couple of feet from the gap between the houses. The black guy at the driver’s seat of the big BMW stared at her, but he looked to be in control of himself. She took the Heckler and Koch pistol from the passenger seat and opened the door. Then she caught sight of the figure moving up the narrow space between the BMW and the wall of the house to the right. There was a black balaclava over the individual’s face and what looked like a Ruger machine pistol in their right hand. It only took Abaddon a moment to decide that she didn’t need to be here any longer.
She pulled the door shut and shifted into Reverse. A minute later she was on the other side of Warren, in a quiet side street. She needed to do two things. First: change her appearance. That didn’t take long. She removed the dreadlocks and put on a brown bob. Then she changed her clothes, putting on a floral dress. All she had to do now was find another vehicle. She fully expected to be tailing people who would be told about the Discovery, so it had to go. Her employer would understand the necessity. She looked in the mirror as a dumb-looking young white man in a dirty white T-shirt pulled up behind her in a nondescript blue pickup. Truly, the Lord Lucifer was benevolent.
Abaddon got out and gave the young man a broad smile. She hadn’t buttoned her dress up all the way.
‘How you doin’, darlin’?’ she said in a sultry voice. ‘My, ain’t you a big, strong boy?’
It wasn’t long till they were headed out of town in convoy, heading north. The guy in the pickup was leading the way to what he said was a right pretty place for a picnic. Not that they had any food or drink. To make it convincing, Abaddon had told him she was a working girl. He said she’d be paying him when she saw what he had in his pants.
Half an hour later, she stopped about fifty yards down the road from the junction at the east of Warren. There was no sign of the BMW and its driver, which was good. She could only hope that the people she wanted to follow would appear at the junction. Sometimes, hope was all you could work with, hope transformed into prayer to the Lucifer Triumphant, and the friends who had been initiated into His worship.
The fool who owned the pickup she was driving didn’t have any hope now, despite the fact that he was at the wheel of the best car he’d ever set foot in. The Discovery was up to its roof in the swamp and his neck wouldn’t support a feather. He’d never had a chance to show her what he had in his pants. It only struck her later that she didn’t know her last two victims’ names. For some reason that made her uneasy, but the sensation passed in seconds. They weren’t the first of her dead to be nameless.
Then she received the text message that she’d hoped and prayed for, and everything became so simple. She didn’t have to follow anyone; she could head to the rite location in her own time. The Antichurch would soon return to its original, pristine glory.
Twenty-Two
They were there again, the woman and the infant, standing on the far side of a fast-moving river. She had one arm extended, the other clutching the child, and her mouth was moving, but I couldn’t hear her words above the rush of the murky water. Her eyes were fixed on me and I recognized her, I knew she meant something to me-what was it? And the child? Was it mine? It seemed it might be, but why couldn’t I join them, why couldn’t I leap into the stream and swim across? I looked down and saw movement in the water, rapid flicks and sudden thrashes above the surface. There were creatures in it, silver-scaled with long snouts. I couldn’t face them. I was afraid. I raised my head and saw that the woman and child had turned away. She was striding with her head held high, into a forest of tall, dense trees. They disappeared.
‘Buna.’ The word wrenched me back to myself. ‘Buna.’
I kept my eyes closed and brought some order to my thoughts. I knew the voice. It was Rothmann’s. Was the word a trigger? I searched my memory, flailing at a faint recollection. Buna. Yes, I knew what it was: the synthetic rubber produced by the Nazis. Dr. Rivers had told me so after I reacted to the stimulus. It was a trigger that we had neutralized. I immediately went into the zone that we had worked to reproduce. I reacted as I hoped Rothmann would expect, jerking open my eyes and clenching my fists. I tensed my entire body, realizing that I was on a bed and had been restrained.
Rothmann wore a strange gown of black material with a high collar. His eyes flicked from me to the screens in front of him. He was checking my heart rate and other vital signs to see if I was responding appropriately. I could only hope that the procedures Dr. Rivers had developed were adequate. Time passed very slowly. Eventually, Rothmann stood up and signaled to the technician beside me. The monitors were switched off and electrodes removed from my head and chest.