The Sigma Protocol (41 page)

Ben took the drink gratefully. It was watery. She was not a drinker. But shaken as he was, he needed a drink badly, and it did the job.

Despite the sofa on which he sat, the room was not set up for visitors. She started to sit facing him, on the edge of the bed, then rejected it in favor of a big wing chair, which she pulled out at an angle to the sofa.

The plate-glass window was a black pointillist
canvas. From up here, Vienna was neon-lit, its lights twinkling under the starry sky.

Navarro leaned forward, crossed her legs. She was barefoot, her feet slender and high-arched, delicate, the toenails painted.

“It was the same guy, you think?” Her abrasive edge was gone.

Ben took another sip. “Definitely. I’ll never forget his face.”

She sighed. “And I thought at least I’d seriously wounded him. From everything I’ve heard, this guy’s incredibly dangerous. And what he did to those four policemen—astonishing. Like an execution machine. You were lucky. Or maybe I should say you were smart—sensing something wasn’t right, using the porter to confuse him, putting our friend off balance, buying yourself time to escape. Well done.”

He shrugged in self-deprecation, secretly pleased by the unexpected compliment. “You know something about this guy?”

“I’ve read a dossier, but it’s incomplete. He’s believed to live in England, probably London.”

“He’s British?”

“Formerly East German intelligence—Stasi. Their field agents were among the most highly trained. Certainly some of the most ruthless. Seems to have left the organization a long time ago.”

“What’s he doing living in England?”

“Who knows? Maybe avoiding the German authorities, like most of his ex-colleagues. What we don’t know is whether he’s an assassin for hire, or whether he’s in the employ of some organization with diverse interests.”

“His name?”

“Vogler, I think. Hans Vogler. Obviously here on some sort of job.”

Some sort of job.
I am next
. Ben felt numb.

“You said he might be in some organization’s employ.”

“That’s what we say when we haven’t figured out the pattern yet.” She pursed her lips. “You might be in some organization’s employ, and I don’t mean Hartman Capital Management.”

“You still don’t believe me, do you?”

“Well, who are you? What are you really up to?”

“Oh, come on,” he said heatedly. “Don’t tell me you guys don’t have a goddamned file on me!”

She glared. “All I know about you are isolated facts without a logical explanation tying them all together. You say you were in Zurich when suddenly someone from your past pops up and tries to kill you and instead gets killed himself. And then his body disappears. Next thing I know, you’ve entered Switzerland illegally. Then your fingerprints turn up all over the house of a banker named Rossignol, who you claim was dead when you got there. You carry a gun, though where you got it—and why—you won’t say.”

Ben listened in silence, letting her go on.

“Why were you meeting with this Lenz, this son of a famous Nazi?”

Ben blinked, unsure how much to divulge. But before he could formulate a reply, she spoke again. “Here’s what I want to know. What does Lenz have in common with Rossignol?”

Ben drained his Scotch. “My brother…” he began.

“The one who died four years ago.”

“So I thought. He turned out to be hiding from some dangerous people. He didn’t know who they were, exactly; I still don’t know. Some conclave of industrialists, or their descendants, or maybe CIA hirelings, maybe something else entirely—who knows? But apparently he’d uncovered a list of names—”

Agent Navarro’s caramel eyes grew wide. “What kind of list?”

“A very old one.”

Her face flushed. “Where did he get this list?”

“He came across it in the archives of a Swiss bank.”

“A Swiss bank?”

“It’s a list of board members of a corporation that was founded in the last days of the Second World War.”

“Jesus Christ,” she breathed. “So that’s it.”

Ben drew a folded, grimy square of paper from his breast pocket and handed it to her. “Sorry, it’s a bit soiled. I’ve been keeping it in my shoe. To keep it out of the hands of people like you.”

She perused it, frowning. “Max Hartman. Your father?”

“Alas.”

“Did he tell you about this corporation?”

“No way. My brother came across it.”

“But wasn’t your father a Holocaust survivor—?”

“And now we come to the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

“Wasn’t there some physical mark—a tattoo or something?”

“A tattoo? At Auschwitz, yes. At Dachau, no.”

She didn’t seem to be listening. “My God,” she said. “The string of mysterious homicides—every single name is here.” She seemed to be speaking to herself, not to him. “Rossignol… Prosperi… Ramago…they’re all here. No, they’re not all on my list. Some overlap, but…” She looked up. “What did you hope to learn from Rossignol?”

What was she getting at? “I thought he might know why my brother was killed, and who did it.”

“But he was himself killed before you got to him.”

“So it seems.”

“Did you look into this Sigma company, try to locate it, trace its history?”

Ben nodded. “But I turned up nothing. Then again, maybe it never existed, if you know what I mean.” Seeing her frown, he went on. “A notional entity, like a shell company.”

“What kind of shell company?”

Ben shook his head. “I don’t know. Something involving American military intelligence, maybe.” He told her of Lenz’s worries.

“I don’t think I buy it.”

“Why not?”

“I work for the government, don’t forget. The bureaucracy leaks like a sieve. They’d never be able to coordinate a series of murders without the world finding out.”

“Then what do you figure the link is? Apart from the obvious, I mean.”

“I’m not sure how much I can tell you.”

“Look,” Ben said fiercely, “if we’re going to share information—if we’re going to help each other—you can’t hold back. You have to trust me.”

She nodded, then seemed to come to a decision. “For one thing, they aren’t, or weren’t, janitors, believe me, none of them. They all had great, visible wealth, or most of them, anyway. The only one who lived modestly, at least that I saw, still had tons of money in the bank.” She told him about her investigation in general terms.

“You said one of them worked for Charles High-smith, right? So it’s as if you’ve got your titans here, and then the guys who work for them, their trusted lieutenants and whatnot. And back in 1945 or so, Allen Dulles is running clearances on them, because they’re all playing together, and Dulles doesn’t like to be surprised by his playmates.”

“Which still leaves the larger question unanswered. What’s the game? Why was Sigma formed in the first place? For what?”

“Maybe the explanation is simple,” Ben said. “Bunch of moguls got together in 1944,’45, to siphon off a huge amount of money from the Third Reich. They divided up the spoils and got even richer. The way guys like that think, they probably told themselves they were reclaiming what was properly theirs.”

She seemed perplexed. “O.K., but here’s what doesn’t fit. You’ve got people who, right up until their deaths just days ago, were receiving regular, large payments. Wire transfers into their bank accounts, in amounts ranging from a quarter-million to a half-million bucks.”

“Wired from where?”

“Laundered. We don’t know where the money originated; we only know the very last links in the chains—places like the Cayman Islands, Turks and Caicos.”

“Haven countries,” Ben said.

“Exactly. Beyond that, it’s impossible to get any information.”

“Not necessarily,” Ben said. “Depends on who you know. And whether you’re willing to bend the law a little. Grease some palms.”

“We don’t bend the law.” Agent Navarro said this with an almost haughty pride.

“That’s why you don’t know shit about where the money came from.”

She looked startled, as if he’d slapped her face. Then she laughed. “What do you know about laundering money?”

“I don’t do it myself, if that’s what you’re thinking, but my company does have an offshore division that manages funds—to avoid taxes, government regulations, all that good stuff. Also, I’ve had clients who are very good at hiding their assets from people like you. I know
people who can get information out of offshore banks. They specialize in it. Charge a fortune. They can dig up financial information anywhere in the world, all through their personal contacts, knowing who to pay off.”

After a few seconds, she said, “How would you feel about working with me on this? Informally, of course.”

Surprised, Ben asked, “What does that mean, exactly?”

“Share information. We have an overlap of motivations. You want to know who killed your brother and why. I want to know who’s been killing the old men.”

Is she on the level?
he wondered. Was this some kind of trick? What did she really want?

“You think the murderers are one and the same? My brother and these men on that list of yours?”

“I’m convinced of it now. All part of the same pattern, the same mosaic.”

“What’s in it for me?” He looked at her boldly but softened it with a grin.

“Nothing official, let me tell you that right up front. Maybe a little protection. Put it this way—they’ve already tried to kill you more than once. How long is your luck going to hold?”

“And if I stick close to you, I’m safe?”

“Safer, maybe. You got a better idea? You did come to my hotel, after all. Anyway, the cops took your gun, right?”

True. “I’m sure you understand my reluctance—after all, until very recently you wanted me in prison.”

“Look, feel free to go back to your hotel. Have a good night’s sleep.”

“Point taken. You’re making a generous offer. Maybe one I’d be foolish to turn down. I—I don’t know.”

“Well, sleep on it.”

“Speaking of sleep—”

Her eyes searched the room. “I—”

“I’ll call down to the front desk and get myself a room.”

“I doubt you’ll get one. There’s some conference here, and they’re booked to capacity. I got one of the last rooms available. Why don’t you sleep on the couch?”

He gave her a quick look. Did the uptight Special Agent Navarro just invite him to spend the night in her room? No. He was deluding himself. Her body language, the unspoken signals, made it clear: she’d invited him here to hide out, not to slip into her bed.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Just one thing: the couch is a little small, maybe a bit too short.”

“I’ve slept on worse, believe me.”

She got up, went to a closet, and found a blanket, handed it to him. “I can ask room service to bring up a toothbrush. In the morning we’re going to have to retrieve your clothes, your luggage, from your hotel.”

“I don’t plan to go back.”

“Definitely not a good idea. I’ll make arrangements.” She seemed to realize that she was standing a little too close, and she took a step backward, the gesture awkward. “Well, I’m going to turn in,” she said.

He thought of something suddenly, an idea that had been teasing at the back of his mind since leaving Lenz’s villa. “The old Nazi hunter Jakob Sonnenfeld lives in this town, doesn’t he?”

She turned toward him. “That sounds right.”

“I read somewhere recently he may be ancient but he’s as sharp as ever. Plus, he’s supposed to have extensive files. I wonder…”

“You think he’ll see you?”

“I think it’s worth a try.”

“Well, be careful if you do go. Take some security
precautions. Don’t let anyone follow you there. For his sake.”

“Hey, I’ll take any advice on that you want to give me.”

While she got ready for bed, he called Bedford on his digital phone.

Mrs. Walsh answered. She sounded agitated. “No, Benjamin, I haven’t heard a word. Not a word! He seems to have vanished without a trace. I’ve—well, I’ve brought the police in on this. I’m at my wits’ end!”

Ben felt a dull headache starting: the tension, which for a while had abated, had returned. Rattled, he mumbled a few empty words of reassurance, disconnected the call, took off his jacket, and hung it on the back of the desk chair. Then, still dressed in his slacks and shirt, he settled onto the sofa and pulled the blanket over him.

What did this mean, his father’s disappearing without leaving a word? He had voluntarily gotten into a limousine; it wasn’t a kidnapping. Presumably he knew where he was going.

Which was where?

He struggled to get comfortable on the couch, but Navarro was right, it was just an inch or two too short for comfort. He saw her sitting up in bed reading a file by the light of the bed lamp. Her soft brown eyes were caught by the pool of light.

“Was that about your father?” she asked. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, but—”

“It’s O.K. Yeah, my father vanished a few days ago. Got in a limousine to the airport and was never heard from again.”

She put down the file, sat up straight. “That’s a possible kidnapping. Which makes it federal business.”

He swallowed, his mouth dry. Could he really have been abducted?

“Tell me what you know,” she said.

The phone jangled some hours later, awakening them both.

Anna picked it up. “Yes?”

“Anna Navarro?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Anna, I’m Phil Ostrow, from the American embassy here. I hope I’m not calling you too late.” A flat Midwestern American accent with Chicagoan vowels.

“I had to get up to answer the phone anyway,” she said dryly. “What can I do for you?” What State Department hack called at midnight?

“I—well, Jack Hampton suggested I call.” He paused significantly.

Hampton was an operations manager for the CIA, and someone who had done Anna more than one assist on a previous assignment. A good man, as straightforward as you could be in an oblique business. She recalled Bartlett’s words about the “crooked timber of humanity.” But Hampton wasn’t built that way.

“I have some information about the case you’re working.”

“What’s your—Who are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”