The Black Sun (16 page)

“Medals?” She looked up, wiping the palm of her hand across her cheek. “War medals?”

“Yes.” Archie frowned. “Why?”

“Folgen Sie mir.”
She drew herself up straight once again. “I must show you.
Kommen Sie
.”

She threw the door open and hurried out through the churchyard. As she reached the top of the steps leading down to the road, she hesitated for a second, her head swiveling to the left, then back again, muttering under her breath all the while. Archie turned his head to see what she’d been looking at. It was a black marble gravestone, newer than those that flanked it. Although he couldn’t read the epitaph, the name,

picked

out

in

large

gold

letters,

was

clearly

visible.

136 james twining

DR. MANFRED LAMMERS.

They retraced their steps in silence. Maria’s shock seemed to have been replaced by an unsmiling resolve. Once inside the house, she directed him to the sitting room and disappeared into one of the rooms at the back. Archie stepped into the room, removed his coat and gloves, and sat down on the cream sofa. The self-assembly furniture looked new and cheap. A gaudy brass and crystal-effect chandelier hung from the middle of the ceiling, casting a yellow wash over the clipframes that adorned the white walls, each containing a shiny Picasso print. Maria came back into the room carrying a small wooden box made from an attractive polished walnut that glowed like the dash of an old sports car. Archie’s eyes lit up at the sight of something old and well made. It was about eight inches across and five inches wide, with a small brass key protruding from the lock. The lid was flat and sat slightly raised above the sides, which rose four inches above a flared base. But it was the symbol inlaid into the lid that grabbed his attention. Two concentric circles with a black disc at their center and runic lightning bolts radiating out from the middle, twelve of them in all. It was identical to the symbol he had seen on the cap badge of Weissman’s uniform.

“He died in a fire.” She placed the box on the white plastic coffee table in front of him.

“The house had to be almost completely rebuilt. This was the only thing that survived. I found it in his car. I thought he had bought it at a fair somewhere, that it wasn’t his. Now

. . .” Her voice faded and she sat down opposite him, staring at the box with an expression halfway between fear and suspicion. “Please take it with you. I don’t want it in the house anymore.”

Archie turned the key and gingerly opened the lid. Inside, on a red velvet lining, lay a medal, its black, red, and white ribbon folded underneath it. The shape was unmistakable. A

Nazi

Iron

Cross.

FBI HEADQUARTERS, SALT LAKE CITY DIVISION, UTAH

January 7—8:37 a.m.

As he approached Viggiano’s office door, Bailey heard raised voices, then the sound of something being thrown or kicked across the room. Whatever it was, he guessed that it must have made a rather large dent in the wall.

Before he had a chance to knock, the door flew open and Viggiano marched out, his face red with rage. He paused midstride and looked Bailey up and down with disdain, his left eye twitching furiously, both his hands clenched. Then, with an angry snort, he shouldered roughly past him toward the exit.

Bailey watched his retreating back until he disappeared from view, then turned to face the open doorway. Regional Director Carter was sitting at Viggiano’s desk. In front of him, neatly arranged on the blotter, were a service revolver and an FBI badge. An upended wastepaper basket lay beneath a deep scar in the wall.

“Bailey”—Carter’s voice was cold and businesslike— “get in here. And shut the door.”

Bailey closed the door behind him and sat down nervously at the chair indicated by Carter. The story was that the director had joined the FBI after a car accident and a collapsed

lung

138 james twining

had ended his professional football career before it had even begun. It was a story that the director’s appearance did little to dispel; tall, broad-chested, with a tanned, square face, deep-set brown eyes, and an aggressive manner that seemed more suited to calling plays than running an investigation. The irony was that he was often mistaken for a realtor, having a seemingly endless supply of striped polyester ties and button-down white cotton shirts.

He fixed Bailey with a silent, slightly questioning gaze, his hands steepled pensively under his chin. Bailey’s eyes flicked nervously to the floor, the silence increasingly awkward as he waited for Carter to speak. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Bailey coughed and mumbled an apology.

“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.”

the black sun 139

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 Hit-ler’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.”

140 james twining

“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.”

the black sun 141

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

HAUPTBAHNHOF, ZURICH, SWITZERLAND

January 7—7:12 p.m.

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 café 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

the black sun 143

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.”

“That ties in.” Turnbull’s tone was more positive now.

“What about your end? Any further intel on Weissman?”

“Well, as you can imagine, the records from back then are pretty thin. First sighting we have is in northern Germany. One of the war crimes investigators reports Weissman being picked up, half-starved, near the Polish border by a patrol looking for Nazi officials. He claimed he’d been liberated from Auschwitz and had given the Russians the slip so he could find what was left of his family. Our boys wanted to check that he didn’t match the description of anyone they were looking for. He didn’t, and the tattoo sort of clinched it for him. Eventually he was offered the choice of asylum in the U.S., Israel, or Britain. He chose us. He’d trained as a chemist before the war and got a job working for a pharmaceutical company. After that, nothing. Not even a parking ticket. He paid his taxes. Lived a quiet life. The model citizen.”