Mark of the Devil (33 page)

Clearing his throat, Bruder read, “’Article Ten. The Holy Roman Catholic Church supports the Government of Germany in its struggle against international Jewry, the—’”

The clamor of voices from the priests and their bishop were deafening, but someone’s, “Damn you!” rang out loud and clear. The priest on the far left cried, “His Holiness would never—”

The sound of Bruder’s pistol being slammed against the table’s surface brought silence to the room, quickly followed by the bishop’s, “Shoot us, young man, and you accomplish nothing.”

“Don’t be stupid, Eric,” Shoemaker pleaded. Aware he had no control of the situation, Shoemaker sank back into his chair and made the sign of the cross.

Very quietly, Starla said, “Eric.”

With an angry glance in Shoemaker’s direction, Bruder continued. “The Church supports the German Government, I quote, ‘…in its struggle against international Jewry, the removal of all vestiges of Jewry from greater Europe, the prevention of genitally diseased offspring, the sterilization, racial hygiene and purity of all others genetically inferior and posing a dangerous racial mixture to, not only the German people but of the Aryan stock and the prevention of reproduction by those people whose progeny would either be of no value or injurious to the Aryan race.

“’In return, the Third Reich solemnly vows to protect the rights of the Catholic Church in its role of religious overseer and its neutrality in the face of rising international opposition. Furthermore, the Third Reich—’”

Starla waved her hand, ordering, “That’s enough, Eric.” She worked several keys on the computer keyboard and immediately the projector disappeared, the screen rose into the ceiling, lights flickered, and window curtains parted.

The only sound heard was the exhaled breath of Bishop Pastorelli, followed by “What is it you want, Madam?”

“One billion dollars, deposited in these four banks.” Starla slid a leather-bound booklet across the table to the bishop.

Even before he opened the booklet’s cover, the bishop shot back, “Impossible!”

“You’re trying to blackmail the Catholic Church,” one of the parish priests blurted, openmouthed disbelief written on his face, as two of the other priests clamored for attention.

Finally, “Fathers, please” came from the youngest of the group. “Mrs. Shoemaker, two questions.”

“Yes, Father?”

“The first is for Mr. Shoemaker. Were you aware of this? Are you part of this treachery against the Church?”

Shoemaker slid forward in his chair, his eyes glued to Starla’s. “I was aware of the possibility that some sort of document existed. Its contents, no, and its discovery was kept from me. Whatever my wife is planning, I have no part. I have done many things in my life of which the Church would not approve, but had I been aware of this…these papers, their true nature, I would have turned them over to the Church for study and appropriate disposition.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shoemaker. And second, Mrs. Shoemaker, why? Why are you doing this?”

Starla studied the priest’s face for a moment, then said, “In case you were wondering, gentlemen, my family name before coming to this country was von Papen. Prior to the war, Franz von Papen, a staunch Catholic, had received the honorary title of Papal Chamberlain. After Pius the Eleventh died, Pacelli, by that time Pius the Twelfth, did not renew the appointment, a grave indignity to our very prominent and influential family.

“Again, during the war, the German government attempted to appoint Franz von Papen, Ambassador to the Holy See. Pacelli as Pius the Twelfth rejected the proposal.

“After that, even though von Papen was cleared of war crimes by the Nuremberg trials, Pius the Twelfth never relented his rejection of von Papen and, thereby, our family. Pius the Twelfth humiliated our family and degraded the family name to the point that my father had to escape what had become an unending curse. I found him. A little girl, ten years old.”

The bishop asked, “What do you mean, you found him?”

“What I saw was forever burned into my memory, and I swore someday, somehow, someone would pay for his death. Can you imagine the trauma of a ten-year-old child discovering her father, hanged by his own doing? No, I don’t think so. Even though Pope John, whatever the number, tried later to make amends, the damage was done. Eric, born a month after our father’s death, and I…we have never forgiven Pacelli or the Catholic Church.”

“I see,” Bishop Pastorelli said, his voice calm, thoughtful. “Besides what money you think you would gain, you’d attempt to damage the Church simply as a matter of vengeance. For family pride. But how do we know this thing…” he tapped the folder in front of him, “…this concordat is genuine? How do we know it’s not a lie?”

“As I’ve told you, the concordat came from a German U-boat, lost on its way to Buenos Aires. As to its authenticity, you have forty-eight hours to advise your superiors in the Vatican through whichever means you choose for them to determine the document’s authenticity and deposit a total of one billion dollars in the four banks noted in the booklet.”

“For God’s sake, Starla,” Shoemaker cried, pushing back his chair and jumping to his feet, “There was enough gold on the submarine to last ten lifetimes. Why this?”

Starla laughed bitterly. “Like everything else, the gold was to be yours, Henry. Always yours. Never ours, nothing but the crumbs for me.” Her laugh quickly translated itself into a look of contempt.

“Eric and I’ve been nothing more than hired hands from the beginning. But this time, the concordat is mine until these holier-than-thou conscripts do what I say. If nothing else, to tweak the nose of a Church that turned its back on my family and, for that matter, your father.”

“My father was a monster, a slave driver for Krupp and its war machine, but that was fifty years ago. The past. It’s dead, Starla. Dead and buried.”

Bruder stood, walked directly across from Shoemaker, waved his pistol at the man’s face, and said, “Starla and I, we’re tired of you, old man. You’ve used up your time. As you say, dead and buried. We’re leaving you, but this time, we’re taking the gold
and
the billion dollars. In Germany, there are those who still believe in the old days. They will welcome us and what we bring.”

Moving to Starla’s side, Bruder placed the pistol in his jacket pocket and leaned forward over the table toward the bishop. With hands resting on the tabletop, he said, “So far as verification of signatures is concerned, I assure you
Reichsführer-SS
Himmler’s signature is his own.”

The muscles in Bishop Pastorelli’s face sagged with a sudden weariness as he said, “I have no doubt it was Himmler who signed the concordat, but if we say Pope Pius the Twelfth’s signature is not his handwriting, what then? If we say this thing is a fake?”

“We believe it is legitimate,” Starla answered. “Pius’ handwriting matches that on the earlier concordat.”

Bruder added, “To specifically answer your question, Bishop, we will still make the concordat you hold in your hands public in a way that there will be no doubt of its authenticity. Even if the signature is forged, it will be almost impossible for the Vatican to prove otherwise.”

“So you say,” the bishop scoffed.

Bruder laughed. “After the recent revelations of pedophilia among your priests, the world will have little trouble believing what an esteemed archaeological organization has uncovered.”

“I’ll have something to say about that,” Shoemaker threatened.

Starla pushed back her chair and stood. “I don’t think so, Henry, but we’ll discuss that later. This ends our meeting for today, gentlemen. While we might not be available locally, we will know the moment two hundred and fifty million dollars is transferred to each of the accounts. The original and all copies of the nineteen forty-two concordat will then be delivered to the Vatican. For that, you have no choice but to accept my word.” She paused a moment before cautioning, “Remember. No police, or we release the concordat immediately. The future of the Catholic Church is at stake. One billion dollars, gentlemen. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Occupants of the unmarked black Ford Crown Victoria were silent until Terri Good maneuvered the car into a parking space marked off with yellow lines and a no-parking sign. Matt looked out at the twenty-six-story building on his right, then at Terri Good. “Thought you were taking us to the Jacksonville Police Department. Didn’t we pass that a little over a block back the other way?”

“My orders were to deliver you to the Alliance Industries Building. This is it.”

Even Hammersmith was confused. “Why?”

“Like you, I do what I’m told. Let’s go.”

Hammersmith balked. “I don’t like it.”

Good turned halfway in her seat and said, “Not my problem, Detective. I’ve got my orders. Now you have yours. We’re here, so move it.”

“Wait a minute,” Matt said, suddenly focusing his attention on the building’s entrance. As state Senator Raleigh Jameson and Dr. Brandy Mason entered the building, seven men in black suits and white Roman collars walked past them, exiting the building. “What the hell’s going on? That jackass of a state senator I can understand, but Brandy?” He pointed. “See that, Steve? And what’s half the Catholic Church doing here?”

“Same as with Hammersmith,” Good answered. “Not your problem.”

“Dr. Brandy Mason sure as hell is,” Park said, “and if priests are involved, it’s gotta be the concordat.”

Matt nodded. “Concordat, and if you’re right, a little case of extortion with a state senator—and, I hate to admit it, dear little Brandy in on the take.”

“I will not allow you to do this, Starla,” Henry Shoemaker said, his face red with anger. “You can have the gold, but you can’t do this to the Church. Whatever I’ve done in the past, it has never been against the Church.”

As the rotund Senator Jameson and Brandy Mason looked on in disbelief, Starla sat at the table, her face totally impassive. “Your Church, Henry, not mine.” Rising from the table and facing the windows and the gray-on-brown ribbon of river below, she said, “Our time has ended, Henry.”

“What’s this all about?” Jameson asked, befuddled. “I thought we were a team.”

“And the Catholic Church?” Brandy asked. “The document Matt told me about—you found it? Is that why those priests were here?”

Shoemaker ignored both Jameson and Brandy. “What do you mean by
ended,
Starla? Nothing ends without my say-so.”

Without turning from the river and the view of water taxis crisscrossing from one bank to the other, Starla said, “That’s right, Henry. Always you, the high and mighty. Tell him, Eric.”

Before Bruder could speak, several knocks sounded from one of the doors. A pattern of knocks which Starla recognized. She looked at the ship’s clock on the wall, smiled, then turned to the computer keyboard and again keyed a command. Locks around the room clicked, and one of the doors opened. “Come in, Mr. Berkeley, Mr. Park, officers. Close the door behind you.”

As soon as the door closed, Matt heard the click of the lock. “Not good,” Matt whispered to Park.

“Speak up, Mr. Berkeley,” Bruder ordered from across the room.

“I was just saying, with a dive mask on, you’d look a lot like the sonofabitch that tried to kill me on the U-boat—and when you couldn’t, you left me and another man to die inside. And you’re probably the man who killed my wife.”

“Your wife was a spy and deserved what she got. As for you, it would have been better had you died, but I do appreciate your assistance in finding the lost documents.”

“You killed his wife and tried to kill him?” Jameson asked. “Despite Miss Brandy’s and my instructions that no one was to die during the project?”

Sighing his annoyance, Bruder said, “Shut up, you fat old fool. Be satisfied to take what we give you.”

Pushing aside all thoughts of Ashley, Matt said, “For once, Senator, I agree with Bruder. As for you, Brandy, how sad you allowed yourself to be taken in by these…these criminals.” To Bruder, he said, “By documents, you mean the second concordat?”

“Correct.” At the same time, Bruder pulled the small semiautomatic pistol from his pocket and aimed it in Matt’s direction.

Quiet until then, Hammersmith shoved his way between Matt and Park and demanded, “What the fuck’s goin’ on here, Good?”

Reaching underneath her jacket, Terri Good pulled out a compact, 9-millimeter Glock semiautomatic, whipped the slide back and forward, throwing a round into the chamber, and leveled the weapon at Hammersmith.

“Big mistake, Terri babe,” Hammersmith said, his eyes narrowed at Good’s pistol.

Good laughed. “Smart guy like you, I would’ve thought you’d have figured this out, Detective. I’m the reason your boss lent you to Jax Beach, aren’t I? You’re really Internal Investigations Unit, aren’t you? Looking for an inside link to the Shoemakers. I’m not stupid. I’ve known all along.”

Terri Good walked around the table, stood next to Starla and said, “Your piece, Hammersmith. On the table, and slide it across.”

Hammersmith pulled his Glock semiautomatic from the shoulder holster beneath his jacket and slid it to the middle of the table. “I’m tellin’ you, Good, big mistake.”

Terri Good placed an arm around Starla’s waist and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “What’d I tell you? Give a man like Hammersmith a good fuck, and after that, his brain’s in his dick.”

“Now I know,” Matt said, staring hard at Terri Good. “The thing at the Omni. You’re the other woman. I saw you from the back. With Bruder, fat boy there, and her.” He nodded toward Jameson and then Starla Shoemaker.

Starla laughed softly, but her attention was more on the clock. Glancing at Bruder, she said, “The ship’s underway from Blount Island by now, and we’ve got a boat to catch. It’s time to go.”

“Go where?” Senator Jameson asked. “I can’t go anywhere.”

“Shut up, damn it!” Good ordered, pointing the Glock at Jameson, then back at Hammersmith. “Remove the cuffs from our friends’ hands, Hammersmith, and toss them over to me. Then against the wall.” Motioning with her pistol, she added, “You, Mr. Shoemaker, this side of the table, opposite the three of them.”

“Why, Starla?” Shoemaker asked, his voice little more than a quiver as he rose and made his way around the table.

As Hammersmith unlocked Matt’s and Park’s handcuffs, Starla answered, “Very simple, Henry. Eric, Terri, and I have a trip to make, and we don’t want any further trouble from you or those three. You’re going to take care of them; they’re going to take care of you.”

“My gold, Starla,” Jameson pleaded, “I just want my—”

Shoemaker cut Jameson off. “You won’t get away with it, Starla.”

“Oh, I think we will. With the gold already on the ship and a billion from the Vatican, we’ll get away with a lot of things.”

“The concordat?” Matt shook his head. “While I’m not Catholic, I think you may have misjudged the gullibility of the Catholic Church, Mrs. Shoemaker, or should I call you by your maiden name. Hedda Krueger von Papen, part of the Franz von Papen family and, of course, granddaughter of
SS-Standartenführer
Colonel Jürgen Krueger, the
man whose thumbprint is on each of the gold ingots. Gold taken from the dead of Auschwitz.”

“My, but you really have done your homework, haven’t you, Mr. Berkeley? We would have been good together, you and I, but we’re wasting time.”

Starla picked up Hammersmith’s pistol and pointed it at her husband. “I hate you, Henry,” she said as she pulled the trigger.

Brandy’s scream was instantly absorbed by the soundproof walls as the 40-caliber round tore through Henry Shoemaker’s chest just below the breastbone. It sheared through part of his spinal column and exited his back, smashing through a colored photograph of the
Sea Rover
on the far wall.

“Oh, my God!” Jameson wailed.

Starla immediately turned toward Matt and Park. “Shoot them, Eric!”

Hammersmith pushed both Matt and Park out of the way, whipped out a backup 25-caliber Walther semiautomatic from a hidden holster, and shot Terri Good. A hole immediately blossomed in the center of Good’s throat. Hammersmith spun his body toward Bruder, but too late. Three shots, two from Bruder and one from Starla, smashed into Hammersmith’s chest, stomach, and side. He dropped where he stood.

Without thinking, Matt dove over Hammersmith’s body, grabbed the Walther, and fired at a pair of legs beneath the table.

“The elevator, Eric,” Starla shouted.

Still beneath the table, Matt heard Jameson cry, “Wait for me, Starla!” At the same time, he saw the bottom part of an elevator door slide open at one end of the room and feet run in that direction. He fired again. Three shots, but the bullets crashed into the legs of chairs around the table, interrupting their intended trajectory and sending them off in different directions. The fourth shot, however, brought a surprised squeal from Jameson. Stumbling forward, he grabbed one of the chairs for support, but pulled it down on top of him when he fell to the floor just short of the elevator. Holding his right leg, he cried, “Starla!”

After the fourth round, the pistol clicked empty. “Damn!” Matt cursed as the elevator door closed with a
thunk.
Immediately on his feet, Matt shouted, “Brandy?”

“I’m here, Matt,” Brandy said through a wash of tears, her body slumped against the end of the table. “I’m so sorry. I…I couldn’t go with them. I—”

Remembering the man who’d taken bullets to save his life, Matt whirled around. “Hammersmith?”

Park had his hand against the detective’s throat, searching for a pulse. “Still alive. Conscious, but barely.”

“Berkeley,” Jameson called between painful whimpers, “help me.”

“Forget it, Senator,” Matt yelled back. “You’re history.”

Kneeling, Matt raised Hammersmith’s head. “I owe you bigtime, Hammersmith, but for right now, the ship. Starla said
ship.
You know anything about Shoemaker’s ships at Blount Island?”

Hammersmith coughed, and blood sprayed from his mouth. Gasping for breath, he whispered, “Alliance…all ships’ names…end with…with Alliance.” With little more than a wheeze for a voice, he said, “Roll-on/roll-off ships. Ma…Majestic Alliance, Grand Alliance, Star…Starla Alliance.”

“That’s gotta be it,” Park said. “Bitch is so stuck on herself, a ship with her name on it is the only way she’d go.”

The sudden
whump, whump, whump
of helicopter rotors from the roof shook the building, the vibration quickly fading as the helicopter moved up and out over the river.

Matt catapulted across the desk, landing in front of the windows next to Terri Good’s body in time to see the huge helicopter, its blue and white fuselage with Alliance Industries painted along its after section. “Goddamn!”

The sound of Park punching three numbers, 9-1-1, called his attention away from the disappearing helicopter. With Starla’s pearlcolored phone in his hand, Park said, “This is Steve Park. Officers down, officers down.” He paused a moment, then said, “Bullet wounds, Alliance Industries Building…Hell, lady, I don’t know. Some kind of conference room.”

Park held the phone out to Matt and asked, “What floor?”

Matt threw up his hands. “Way up. Antiquity Finders conference room.”

Back on the phone, Park asked, “Got that?…Yeah, one probably dead; one hurt bad. Also, one crooked state senator who the cops’ll love to see…”

Brandy rushed around the table and grabbed Matt’s arm. “I knew about the gold, Matt, but I didn’t know about the Catholic thing. And I didn’t know they killed Ashley or tried to kill you. Please, Matt, please believe me.”

Matt pulled away from Brandy. “I believe you, Brandy, but your ship that was coming in? Unfortunately for you, it just left.”

Spinning away, Matt snatched up Good’s Glock semiautomatic, crammed it in his pants pocket, then rummaged in her jacket for the keys to the Crown Victoria. Once the keys were in his hand, he waved at Park as he headed for the elevator door. “The nine-one-one operator,” he said over his shoulder, “don’t let her go. Tell her to get that Coast Guard Group Commander friend of yours at Mayport on the horn.” Matt slapped the elevator’s
down
button and added, “Tell it all, gold and everything. Tell him Commander Berkeley’s on his way and to have one of their patrol craft standing by. We’ve got a ship to stop.”