when they liberated us from tyranny,” he continued proudly. “In my time I helped them
root out the Nazis and the Nazi sympathizers pretending to be good Germans.” He spat
out the last words, as if he couldn’t stand to have them in his mouth.
“Then what are you doing here?” Bourne said. “Don’t you have a home to go to?”
“Sure I do.” Old Pelz smacked his lips, as if he could taste the life of his younger self.
“In fact, I have a very nice house in Dachau. It’s blue and white, with flowers all around
a picket fence. A cherry tree stands in back, spreading its wings in summer. The house is
rented out to a fine young couple with two strapping children, who send their rent check
like clockwork to my nephew in Leipzig. He’s a big-shot lawyer, you know.”
“Herr Pelz, I don’t understand,” Petra said. “Why not stay in your own home? This is
no place to live.”
“The bunker is my health insurance.” The old man cocked a canny eye her way. “Do
you have any idea what would happen to me if I went back to my house? They’d spirit
me away in the night, and that’s the last anyone would ever see of me.”
“Who would do that to you?” Bourne said.
Pelz seemed to consider his answer, as if he needed to remember the text of a book
he’d read in high school. “I told you I was a Nazi hunter, a damn fine one, too. In those
days I lived like a king-or, if I’m honest, a duke. Anyway, that’s before I got cocky and
made my mistake. I decided to go after the Black Legion, and that one intemperate
decision was my downfall. Because of them I lost everything, even the trust of the
Americans, who at that time needed those damn people more than they needed me.
“The Black Legion kicked me into the gutter like a piece of garbage or a mangy dog.
From there it was only a short crawl down here into the bowels of the earth.”
“It’s the Black Legion I came here to talk to you about,” Bourne said. “I’m a hunter,
too. The Black Legion isn’t a Nazi organization anymore. They’ve turned into a Muslim
terrorist network.”
Old Pelz rubbed his grizzled jaw. “I’d say I’m surprised, but I’m not. Those bastards
knew how to play all the cards in all the hands-the Germans, the Brits, and, most
importantly, the Americans. They toyed with all of ’em after the war. Every Western
intelligence service was throwing money at them. The thought of having built-in spies
behind the Iron Curtain had them all salivating.
“It didn’t take the bastards long to figure out it was the Americans who had the upper
hand. Why? ’Cause they had all the money and, unlike the Brits, weren’t being tight-
fisted with it.” He cackled. “But that’s the American way, isn’t it?”
Not waiting for an answer to a question that was self-evident, he plowed on. “So the
Black Legion took up with the American intelligence machine. First off, it wasn’t
difficult to convince the Yanks that they’d never been Nazis, that their only goal was to
fight Stalin. And that was true, as far as it went, but after the war they had other goals in mind. They’re Muslims, after all; they never felt comfortable in Western society. They
wanted to build for the future, and like a lot of other insurgents they created their power base with American dollars.”
He squinted up at Bourne. “You’re American, poor bastard. None of these modern-day
terrorist networks would’ve existed without your country’s backing. Fucking ironic, that
is.”
For a time he lapsed into muttering, broke into a song whose lyrics were so melancholy
tears welled up in his rheumy eyes.
“Herr Pelz,” Bourne said, trying to get the old man to focus. “You were talking about
the Black Legion.”
“Call me Virgil,” Pelz said, nodding as he came out of his fugue state. “That’s right,
my Christian name is Virgil, and for you, American, I will hold my lamp high enough to
throw light on those bastards who ruined my life. Why not? I’m at a stage in my life
when I should tell someone, and it might as well be you.”
They’re in the back,” Bev said to Drew Davis. “Both of them.” A woman in her
midfifties with a thick frame and a quick wit, she was The Glass Slipper’s girl wrangler,
as she wryly called herself-part disciplinarian, part den mother.
“The main interest is in the general,” Davis said, “isn’t that right, Kiki?”
Kiki nodded. She was closely flanked by Soraya and Deron, and all of them were
clustered in Davis’s cramped office up a short flight of stairs from the main room. The
pounding of the bass and drums thumped against the walls like the fists of angry giants.
The room had the appearance of an attic or a garret, windowless, its walls like a time
machine, plastered with photos of Drew Davis with Martin Luther King, Nelson
Mandela, four different American presidents, a host of Hollywood stars, and various UN
dignitaries and ambassadors from virtually every country in Africa. There was also a
series of informal snapshots of him with his arm around a younger Kiki in the Masai
Mara, totally unself-conscious, looking like a queen-in-training.
After her talk with Rob Batt in the parking lot, Soraya had returned to her table inside
and filled in Kiki and Deron on her plan. The noise from the band on stage made
eavesdropping impossible, even by anyone at the next table. Because of her longtime
friendship with Drew Davis, it had been up to Kiki to create the spark that would light the fuse. This she did, resulting in this impromptu meeting in Davis’s office.
“For me to even contemplate what you’re asking, you have to guarantee blanket
immunity,” Drew Davis said to Soraya. “Plus, leave our names out of it, unless you want
to piss me off-which you don’t-as well as pissing off half the elected officials in the
district.”
“You have my word,” Soraya said. “We want these two people, that’s the beginning
and the end of it.”
Drew Davis glanced at Kiki, who responded with an almost imperceptible nod.
Now Davis turned to Bev.
“Here’s what you can do and what you can’t do,” Bev said, reacting to her boss’s cue.
“I won’t allow anyone on my ranch who’s not there for legitimate purposes-that is, either
a patron or a working girl. So forget just barging in there. I do that and tomorrow we have no business left.”
She wasn’t even looking at Drew Davis, but Soraya saw him nod in assent, and her
heart fell. Everything depended on their gaining access to the general while he was in the
midst of his frolics. Then she had a thought.
“I’ll go in as a working girl,” she said.
“No, you won’t,” Deron said. “You’re known to both the general and Feir. One look at
you and they’ll be spooked.”
“They don’t know me.”
Everyone turned their heads to stare at Kiki.
“Absolutely not,” Deron said.
“Ease up there,” Kiki said with a laugh. “I’m not going through with anything. I just
need access.” She mimed taking photos. Then she turned to Bev. “How do I get into the
general’s private room?”
“You can’t. For obvious reasons the private rooms are sacrosanct. Another rule of the
house. And both the general and Feir have chosen their partners for the evening.” She
drummed her fingers against Davis’s desktop. “But in the case of the general there is one
way.”
Virgil Pelz took Bourne and Petra farther into the bunker’s main tunnel, to a rough-
hewn space that opened out into a circle. There were benches here, a small gas stove, a
refrigerator.
“Lucky someone forgot to turn off the electricity,” Petra said.