Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

I kept silent, my mind in a frenzy. Why had the killer deliberately left clues pointing to a Nazi link?

“You aren’t in complete control of the killer, are you?” I said at last.

“You’re not as clever as you think, Matt Wells. You have overlooked something much more important.”

The tone of her voice warned me that I was in danger, but I didn’t know how to react.

Before I could do anything, she screamed, “Barbarossa! The policemen! Barbarossa!”

She said the words twice before I got a hand over her mouth. As I restrained her, I felt a strange mix of emotions-shock at the virulence of her screams, but also a pressure that was being brought to bear on me and an urge, frightening in its intensity, to comply with some immutable authority.

Then the rational part of my mind kicked in. Barbarossa: it was the code name for the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union-the greatest act of aggression in human history. I realized that it was a trigger and pushed myself away from Irma Rothmann. As I crashed down the stairs, images cascaded before me-twin weapons puncturing flesh and organs; twin weapons, held by the hands of twin murderers; twins from a farm on Iowa, whose father had died trying to bring them home; twins who had now been ordered to attack.

Gavin Burdett was sitting in front of the TV in a house on the outskirts of Baltimore, his trousers and boxers round his ankles. Despite the pair of muscle-bound guards downstairs and the open door, he had been zapping between porn channels. There was a bevy of women pretending to be lesbians that almost got him going, but then he had found a spoof horror movie that featured a zombie orgy. It was one of the best climaxes he’d had in months.

After he cleaned himself up, he surfed the normal channels. A cold stiletto of fear had entered his gut when he saw Karen Oaten getting out of a helicopter. What was the bitch doing free? Larry had promised him she’d never be seen again.

Burdett got up, stretched for his cell phone and was brought down by the clothes round his ankles. He finally reached the device and called Thomson’s private number.

“What the fuck’s going on?” he screamed. “Oaten’s free.”

“Of course she is.”

“But…but you told me she was finished. What about the case against me?”

“Oh, Gavin, how can you be so selfish?”

“What do you mean? If I go down, so do you.”

Larry Thomson laughed. “That’s not exactly true, you know,” he said smoothly. “There are other eventualities.”

The connection was broken.

Gavin Burdett threw the phone down and caught sight of the men in the doorway. The one in front was carrying a length of rope with a noose at one end.

The last thing the investment banker thought of was the tarot card depicting the hanged man. He knew more than he should have of the occult world, and now he was paying the price. The hanged man meant relinquishing control, different priorities and readjustment. But, as he was only too well aware, it also pointed to a necessary sacrifice.

By the time I got to the dining-room door, the twins had already struck. Clem and Versace were both motionless on the floor; a table knife protruded from Pinker’s bloody chest. Nearer to me, Gwen was sawing frantically at the plastic ties on Dana Maltravers’s wrists and Randy was turning my way with Clem’s pistol. I had already racked the slide on the FBI woman’s weapon and I got a shot off before he did. Randy took it in the upper abdomen and crashed backward into the empty fireplace.

His sister shrieked and turned the knife on me. I brought my free hand down hard on her forearm. The knife carved an arc through the air and landed on the opposite side of the table, out of Maltravers’s reach. The agent stood up and charged at me with her head down. I was driven into the door frame, but I managed to keep a grip on the gun. The blow stunned me and I could hardly move, but something else was holding me back, a force I couldn’t resist…

“Leave him,” I heard Irma Rothmann say from the hall. “He won’t harm us now. I can drive. I cut myself free with these nail scissors-we’ll free you in the car, Dana.”

The FBI woman slammed both her elbows into my belly and then stumbled out. Gwen went with her, eyes wide. Then I threw up on to the carpet and tried to get a grip on myself as the pressure in my mind lessened.

I saw Clem Simmons’s head. It was lying in a pool of blood. I let out a roar and crawled into the hall, my vision clouded. The front door was open and I saw Clem’s car being reversed onto the street. Lying flat and trying to hold my hand steady, I fired at the car until the clip was empty.

The vehicle slewed into a bush and stayed there. Its horn was blasting repeatedly as I dragged myself up and staggered outside. Steam was rising from the bonnet and the front windscreen had shattered. My gun was empty, but I kept going-it had occurred to me that the fuel tank might explode. Then I got to the front door and looked in.

Irma Rothmann was lying back against the headrest, blood coming in gouts from a hole above her right eye. Her daughter Dana was unconscious and I hauled her out, feeling her shallow breath against my arm. She had taken a bullet in the right side of her chest. I got her clear and went back for Gwen. I found the back door on the other side of the car open-no sign of her, no blood on the seat. By the time I looked again, there was no spurting from Irma Rothmann’s entry wound. She was no longer alive, but I didn’t have it in me to care.

As I got back to the house, I heard the sound of sirens between the horn blasts. I checked Clem and found a pulse after rolling him on to his side. Versace was alive, too-just. Randy was still breathing. They would all have a chance, assuming paramedics were on the way. I picked up Versace’s gun and cell phone. There was a number in there that I’d be needing. Staying on-site was not an option.

I headed toward the back of the house. As I went through the sitting-room, I thought I was dreaming. The TV was on and there was breaking news coverage showing pictures of Karen, my Karen, stepping out of an executive jet. She was smiling and looked in good health. I felt a surge of joy, but it was short-lived. I was turning tail, leaving the cops who had been helping me in critical condition-but I couldn’t stay, even though it meant not watching Karen. Perhaps I’d never see her again, but she was well. That was all that mattered.

Meanwhile, I had to finish things with the surviving twin from Auschwitz.

The lights of central Washington stretched out beneath the window of Karen Oaten’s suite in what she assumed was the highest and most luxurious hotel in the city. There was an FBI agent on guard duty outside and a team patrolling the building, but she was alone with her thoughts on an antique sofa, her legs drawn up beneath her.

So far, everything was going smoothly. The deputy director of the FBI had been taken aback by her insistence that she resume meetings immediately. He had assumed she would go straight to the hospital for a thorough checkup, but she assured him that would not be necessary and that she would arrange things herself with the British Embassy doctor.

After eating a late dinner from room service, Karen had taken a shower and settled down to review her case files. At her request, they had been brought over from FBI headquarters. The Gavin Burdett investigation would come to nothing now. She’d had a brief conversation with her boss in London. He told her that she would be all over the morning papers and that numerous journalists would want to interview her. She wasn’t planning on giving any of them access, at least not yet.

Sipping chamomile tea, Karen leaned back and took in the view again.