Hands of the Traitor (10 page)

"I think so, Major. Are you getting
another team together?"

"Perhaps, but nothing as erotic as
rescuing French beauties from the evil Hun. We might have a trip to
Holland lined up for a lucky few. That's where most of these big
rockets seem to be coming from. The Jerries are using mobile launch
sites -- in residential areas."

"The MO says I should be fit
soon."

"But the padre has some doubts I
gather."

"With all due respect to Padre
Hawkins, Major, he's not exactly proper army, so to speak." Alec
tried to hide his disappointment at the rebuttal. He wanted to pay
the Nazis back for his ruined life.

Padre Hawkins had been a good comforter, a
close friend through the early stages of recovery. He liked the
padre, a Canadian by birth, both of them thrown into life at the
deep end by this war, both struggling to stay afloat.

Fergus Hawkins always had something
sensible to share each time they went under.

"Our boys have had a little think
about the name you gave us. Heinemann wasn't it?"

"Heinman, Major."

"Same difference. It's still German.
We think you got confused about who was who over there." The Major
opened a drawer. "There's to be no gong I'm afraid, but you can
have these back as a little memento of a bloody good effort on
French soil. Besides, the army doesn't need jewelry." He tossed the
signet ring and small crucifix onto the desk. "Have a little chat
with the padre this afternoon. It's very healing, you
know."

Alec reached for the objects. Healing?
The memory of that severed hand falling from the kit bag would
never heal. It had seared itself into his brain to stay for
eternity, but he could cope with it. What really screwed him up
were the half-memories of Sophie Bernay. Even in his sleep he could
see her face, taste her blood on his lips.

"Thanks, Major, I'd like to see Padre
Hawkins again."

"Good fellow. I'll fix up a
meeting."

*

THE TWO men sat alone.

"I don't want you to think I'm a soft
touch or anything, Padre." Alec Rider felt anxious for the future.
"But I wouldn't object if you prayed for me when you have a spare
five minutes."

He watched Fergus Hawkins sit back,
his tall body crammed into the canvas deck chair under the scarlet
berries of the mountain ash. The tree just about filled the small
back garden. A smell of smoke from a neighbor's bonfire hovered in
the air. Autumn wasn't far away now.

"I've never thought of you as a soft
touch, Alec." The Canadian reached out and touched his arm. "Not
many people are ready to admit they need God -- not when death
isn't staring them in the face. And I'm afraid it will always be
so."

"Ah, but the difference is I mean it,
Padre." Alec could have used his fellow officer's Christian name,
but it would have destroyed the relationship. A padre was a padre,
and more than an equal. "I still can't remember what
happened."

"It's early days yet, Alec. Perhaps
after all is said and done, the Lord has erased your memory in
order to give you peace."

Alec lay back and watched the clouds
change shape high above. "I'm a murderer, Padre. You should be
offering me forgiveness, not platitudes. Keep those for your Sunday
sermons." He could speak his mind. The understanding between them
was good.

Fergus Hawkins set his deck chair back
to its maximum inclination to face the low afternoon sun. "Sunny
days are like heaven," he said with a sigh of
satisfaction.

"Not for the poor sods being shot to
hell in France."

"You can't come to terms with killing,
can you, Alec." It was just a plain statement.

Alec closed his eyes. In the
Pas-de-Calais, he'd been responsible for twenty or thirty deaths
within a matter of seconds.

"I can come to terms with
killing the Nazi bastards with their flying bombs, but I can't cope
with killing an innocent French girl." He turned to face the padre.
"You're right, it
is
pleasant out here on a day like this, on the right side of
the Channel. Perhaps I'll retire from the army. Opt for an easy
life like yours. Take up holy orders -- in civvy street of course.
Hell!" He clutched at the padre's arm. "There was blood on that
girl's face. I can see it now."

Fergus took his hand and held it
tightly for a moment. "Of course I'll pray for you. You need peace.
May God grant you peace."

"May God grant me my memory,
Padre."

"Perhaps not, Alec. Perhaps
not."

*

New York
-- January 1945

FRANK HEINMAN stood by his secretary's
desk, painfully aware of her heavy pregnancy. Skorensky had died in
a racing accident a month ago, driving in his usual crazy way. It
left him with the problem of finding a new chief executive officer,
and the problem of paying off Karen McDowell. He tried not to think
of his father having sex with her in this office.

"Karen, I'm planning some major changes in
DCI now you're going." He shuffled his feet uneasily, finding the
conversation difficult. This was her last day, and he wanted to
find out just how much she knew before offering money to care for
the baby. With Skorensky out of the way -- conveniently out of the
way, although he was reluctant to admit it -- Karen was the final
link to the past.

"Frank, you can do what you like. Only
I can't see you're ever going to get on top of the problems at
DCI."

He recoiled at this use of his first
name. His father, Albert, had been a stickler for staff using
proper forms of address, but his secretary now spoke to him, the
president, with what sounded like contempt. "You've worked for DCI
since before the war, Karen."

"Sure, Frank. Not that I knew much
about the war at first, what with it happening over in Europe." She
seemed tense.

"Did my father...?" He hesitated, but
he had to know. "Back in '39, Karen, did my father ever say
anything about DCI and the Germans?"

Karen nodded knowingly. "I think he
wondered whose side to be on, what with the money coming from the
German-American Bund. But I guess he tried to keep sort of neutral
-- like a lot of Americans at that time."

"Do you know anything about a business
deal we did with the Germans in '37?"

"Sure, I heard something. Don't
forget, I was your father's personal secretary, too."

He took his time before going on. "And
what would you say if ... if I told you that DCI has cut itself off
from Germany? Totally."

"You mean cut itself off sort of
recent?"

He looked at her closely. "How recent
would you say?" He could feel the palms of his hands
sweating.

She put a fresh sheet of paper in the
typewriter for a final memo, like she was playing a game. "Your
father said he was taking you to northern France. Then he got
killed." She swiveled her chair away from the desk.

He stared dumbly. "I didn't realize
you knew anything about that trip, Karen."

"Some surprise for our English
cousins, so I heard. It wasn't any hunting trip up north, that's
for sure."

"But you never said..."

She laughed. "That's right, Frank, I
never said. No more than I said anything about the Berlitzan
Project."

"You bitch! You've been plotting this
for months!" Now he knew why she was uptight.

"I've made Photostats of some papers
in the safe. My lawyer is holding them for me. They're ... like ...
my insurance."

"Are you threatening me with
blackmail?" With Skorensky gone there was no way he could cope with
this. Skorensky had wanted to eliminate Karen. He should have let
him.

"All I want is something for my
future. And the baby's."

"If you think I'm going to marry you,
you..."

She shook her head.
"
Marry
you? You're a fool, Frank."

"Then what?"

"Financial security. Not that I want
promotion to chief executive or anything. I want out, mister. Your
company stinks. But I'll act dumb about the Nazis. It can be a
secret between the two of us. Don't go sending anyone after me, or
my lawyer will call the cops. I've protected my position, as they
say in the movies."

"You bitch, you bitch, you bitch." He
couldn't help it; he burst into tears.

She smiled.

He rubbed his eyes and cheeks with the
handkerchief he'd been winding round his fingers. "How much do you
want?"

"More than you've got,
Frank."

"How much?" he repeated, his voice
sounding unsteady through the tears.

She had such a confident look on her
face. "Why don't you talk it over with your precious mama and see
if she'll give me some of her money. Tell her about the deal your
father did with the Nazis. And while you're about it, tell her what
he did with me in his spare time."

"I can't, Karen. She doesn't know
anything about the Berlitzan Project, or about ... you know." He
pointed at Karen's bulging stomach. "It would finish
her."

"Poor darling momma. But I'm sure you'll
find a way. I want more money than you've got, mister, and your
ma's a wealthy woman." She began to laugh. "If the kid's a girl,
I'm calling her Victoria. A boy, and it's going to be Victor. I
want to remember how I came out of this one a winner."

"My father was a fool to do this to
you. And I wish to God he'd never got involved with the
Nazis."

"It's too late for tears now, Frank.
Believe me, one day your grubby little past is going to catch up
with you." And she laughed again.

*

London

OVER SIX months had passed since the raid
in the Pas-de-Calais; seven agonizing months of a haunted memory.
Alec Rider was invalided out of the army in March 1945. Temporary
insanity. No one actually said it in his presence. Certainly not
his wife. She rarely complained, even though she was finding it
hard to cope with a mentally sick husband and an active
ten-year-old. Most of the time she ignored him. It was easier that
way.

Alec Rider sat alone in the back
garden in the spring sunshine. He tried not to fall asleep in the
deck chair under the mountain ash which was now covered in white
flowers. The dreams made him physically sick. Padre Hawkins had
returned to Canada; the army had turned its back; the doctor never
called.

The nightmares were more
frequent.

The girl, her face covered in blood,
opened her mouth.

Then she screamed.

And no one seemed to care.

The Present

Chapter
10

The Present
-- England

MATT RIDER went straight to Mac the Hack's
Internet café and started by checking the web pages of the Sunday
papers. The story varied slightly from paper to paper, but one
thing was clear: the dead Dutchman had been found clutching a gold
signet ring. Two of the papers had close-up pictures of the ring,
and it looked to be identical to the one his grandfather had
brought back from France.

He found a couple of useful addresses for
commercial registers in America, and printed out a letter to an
organization called NATA, the North American Trades Association in
New York. Ken's suggestion sounded good. He had brought some
Habgood Securities paper with him and it should give the letter
some weight, as well as ensuring confidentiality.

Dear NATA,

I believe your
organization has details of many North American businesses, going
back over the past one hundred years.

I am researching company
history for a client, and wonder if you have a list of staff
members of Domestic Chemicals International (DCI) for the period of
the Second World War, 1939
-1945. My client particularly needs to discover if
any members of the Heinman family died within this period, and if
so, where and when. Also, were any Heinmans from DCI serving in
Europe during the war?

It is possible DCI had a
trading partner or subsidiary company operating in Germany during
the 1930s and
'
40s, possibly for the production of chemicals for military
use. Do you have any information on this?

Please treat this letter
in confidence, as my client does not wish DCI to be aware of his
interest.

Yours
sincerely,

Matt Rider

He then wrote a letter to the French
mayor in the town nearest the site where the ring was found, and
posted it on the way to meet Zoé Champanelle at the White
Lion.

"Ken's been brilliant. He's giving me
time off to find Sophie." He threw his jacket onto the back of a
chair in the main bar. "What are you drinking?"

Zoé rose and gave him a
restrained hug. Standing up she seemed taller today, certainly
taller than Louise. Maybe it was the shoes. In contrast to Louise,
Zoé stood gracefully, not like someone auditioning for the leading
role in the
Hunchback of Nôtre Dame
. He checked himself. It wouldn't do to
have such final thoughts this early. Maybe the relationship with
Louise wasn't completely over.