Hands of the Traitor (36 page)

Matt decided to go for it.
Sophie caught his eye again. It was amazing how the two of them
interacted. He changed his grip on Zoé's arm, slowly increasing the
pressure
twice in quick succession. That should signal to her that
something was happening.

"Monsieur Urquet," said Sophie in
French, "Those two Americans are wicked men." She started to tell
about the Heinmans, running back over the wartime incident in
France. Suddenly she stood up and seized her throat, her breath
coming in great gasps. Then she slumped to the ground.

Matt needed no more prompting. As
Urquet bent over the choking woman he snatched the keys from the
desk. He pointed to the door and tugged a protesting Zoé towards
it.

"Don't stop," he shouted to
Zoé.

"But Sophie. We must not leave her."
Zoé sounded frantic. "I am a nurse. She is..."

Matt let the door close and shook his
head. "It's an act."

"Are you sure?"

It was a very convincing performance.
"No, I'm not sure, but we have to stop the Heinmans. It's what
Sophie wants."

There was the option of an elevator
down, but Matt knew it would make them vulnerable. Some central
control might be able to bring it to a halt and trap them between
floors. The carpeted staircase led to the basement area lit by a
row of fluorescent strip lights.

A large metal door blocked off their
escape to the road outside. Matt noticed a silver Porsche 935
facing it. The transponder unlocked the doors and the key fitted
the ignition. A high cabinet by the exit showed a green and a red
light.

"Press the green button," he called.
"I'll drive forward and you jump in."

He was right about the controls. The
green button activated a motor that swung the door up and over the
roof of the waiting Porsche. He touched the accelerator. There was
fantastic power under his right foot.

Zoé jumped into the passenger seat and
Matt lit up the rear tires. The Porsche screeched up the ramp,
seconds before the automatic door swung shut, just as alarm bells
rang through the Art Deco Building. Matt let the engine rev more
gently, then changed gear. The car leapt forward again, almost
catching him unawares.

"I think this machine beats
the
caleçon
off the old Mini," observed Zoé. "Look, I can see the sign
for the airport." She suddenly sounded dispirited. "Why did you
leave Sophie behind? She is dying of the heart attack."

"I told you, she was acting," said
Matt, hoping his optimism would be contagious, and hoping that what
he said was true.

The airport was several miles out of
Geneva. The disembarking point for taxis and coaches was marked
with the traditional yellow lines and warning notices about
unattended vehicles. Matt came to a halt, vowing to get a Porsche
for himself one day. With Zoé trying to keep up in her high heels
he ran into the departure area. A traffic controller stood fussing
over a large blue Volvo with a British number plate. They were not
even through the doors before the man shouted after them not to
leave the Porsche unattended.

Matt turned, hardly pausing in
his rush. "Keep it," he called back. "It's a present!
Un
cadeau!
"

*

FRANK HEINMAN
bit his lip in
frustration. His contact in the white coveralls and airline
insignia insisted they should wait no longer. Then as suddenly as
he'd disappeared, his son was back, alone and smiling.

"You remember Hammid Aziz?"

"Of course," Frank replied coldly.
"Now let's get going."

"Aziz wants to do a deal," said Jason,
sounding as though it was all arranged.

Frank felt his heart beat rise as he
recalled that foggy morning by the East River on his way to school.
That damn corpse was still rising to the surface. Berlitzan oil was
being sold once more to the war mongers.

"You're not taking it on the
Gulfstream, boy."

Jason held his hands out in innocence.
"Would I do that? See, they're empty." He laughed. "You're too
suspicious. Search me. You won't find one of those gold cylinders.
They're all under Urquet's desk."

Frank knew his son too well. It was a
bluff. Did Jason think he wouldn't do it? Nothing would persuade
him to fly on the company jet with one drop of Berlitzan oil
aboard.

"Sure, boy, I'll search
you!"

*

Zoé saw them first; the two Heinmans
arguing together. Matt noticed that the traffic controller had
already claimed the Volvo. Two men were preparing to load it onto a
low trailer. He hoped they'd be pleased with the gift of Urquet's
Porsche.

Matt could clearly see
the
old
American holding four gold cylinders. He'd been talking angrily
with his son who tried to snatch at them, knocking them from his
father's hand.

The small cylinders rolled under a
luggage cart. Frank Heinman pulled Jason away, obviously trying to
persuade him to leave them there. Jason Heinman struck his father
viciously on the arm and retrieved them all, then led the way past
a security check point.

Matt counted three men altogether --
hurrying through the airport workers' gate. When he got there with
Zoé, an armed guard blocked the way. The man was insistent. Without
passes they were going no further.

Chapter
28

"I SAY
we forget Urquet's stupid
ideas."

Frank Heinman only wanted one thing -- to
get out of Europe and back to the States. He no longer trusted
Urquet. The USA was home territory, and home territory was where
he'd be safe.

"Okay, we'll get the hell out," agreed
Jason. "Our jet can be ready to leave inside of ten
minutes."

"Are you sure? You can't be sure,"
protested Frank.

"I've seen the pilot," explained Jason
breathlessly. "That's where I went. I..." He shook his head. "Hell,
I'm the DCI president now, not you. You'll understand as soon as
we're safe home."

Frank felt an unexpected paternal
responsibility for his son. "Safe home? We'll have a damn good try,
the two of us."

The way onto the apron lay ahead, with
several enormous jets parked by the terminal building. Frank
blocked his ears as the loud whistle of engines rose to a roar. An
elderly DC8 taxied away for takeoff, an airplane that was probably
even older than the much smaller DCI Gulfstream. Four transatlantic
passenger aircraft parked on the apron dwarfed the executive jet
parked beyond them.

"We wouldn't be running like this if it
wasn't for young Rider." Frank tried to stay calm. "But it's not
going to make any difference is it? Urquet isn't God. I mean, that
was only some crazy plan of his to pretend we were arriving
tonight." But he felt doubts niggling deep down. Simon Urquet had
proved himself a very able employee over the years. "I can't see a
problem in going straight back to the States and saying we were
there all along. These foreign places terrify me."

Jason didn't even turn to acknowledge
him.

Frank kept looking at the large
airplanes, and couldn't quite believe what he was seeing when
presented with a view from ground level. "It was Hammid Aziz and
his sidekick Carlo with you just now, wasn't it?"

Jason laughed. "Aziz needs to get out
of Europe as fast as we do."

"But not with
us
.
Not on our airplane!"

"It's all fixed," shouted
Jason.

The DC8 turned away and the noise level
dropped. "And the Berlitzan oil?" demanded Frank. "I might allow
Aziz on board -- but not the oil."

"I dropped it in the trash can as we
left the lounge."

He knew his son was lying. "The hell
you have. Like you ditched it on the way down through France. I
want it. All of it." He stood in front of the aircraft steps.
"Believe me, Jason, I mean it."

Jason held up four gold cylinders.
"Okay, it's not worth getting worked up about. I need to be out of
here as much as you do."

Frank snatched them and pushed them
into his jacket pocket. "And that's the lot?"

"The lot," insisted Jason. "And I'll
have them back when we get to New Jersey."

"The hell you will."

As they climbed the steps to board the
old Gulfstream II, Jim Fenhurst the pilot came to the doorway to
welcome them aboard. Hammid Aziz, minus Carlo, was already sitting
in the back seat of the small cabin.

"Thank you for offering to take me to
America, Mr. Heinman," said Hammid with a slight bow. "You a very
charitable man." The look was smooth, the words oily.

Frank frowned as he felt in his
pocket. Berlitzan oil. Just four cylinders left out of twelve.
Something bothered him. He had these four from Jason's pocket.
There had been more than this in Urquet's office. So where were the
others?

"We fly now?" Aziz sounded
anxious.

Frank nodded to the pilot. "Get this
machine in the air -- fast. And don't forget, we're not on
board."

"I no say a word, Mr. Heinman." Aziz
clearly thought the words were meant for him. Aziz fastened his lap
belt then leaned forward in his seat. "The police, they look for
me, too." He laughed, almost to himself. "They not find me here
with you."

Jason nodded. "You're safe with us,
Hammid. DCI isn't going to let you down." His voice sounded
derisive. "DCI never lets anyone down. Isn't that right,
Father?"

"That's enough, Jason." Frank turned
to Aziz. "It's not right to mix our business with yours, but you're
welcome to share the flight. What about the man with you at Geneva
airport?"

Aziz stopped. "What man?"

Frank detected something evasive in
the answer. There had definitely been two men talking to Jason.
"The South American. Carlo something?"

"Ah, Carlo." Aziz braced himself in
his seat as the jet accelerated for takeoff. "Yes, Carlo he come to
Geneva. He on his way to Israel now."

Frank noticed Aziz and Jason exchange
glances. The airborne jet banked sharply and he gripped the
armrest.

Berlitzan oil.

The pressure in his stomach added to
the betrayal. His own son had given Berlitzan oil to
Carlo.

DCI needed funds, just as it had before
the war when his father turned to Berlin. The new cancer treatment
was unworkable, a con. The whole damn world of Domestic Chemicals
was nothing but a house of straw -- and the Rider family was the
match that had set it alight. He stood up and moved towards his
son.

"Sit down," Jason shouted at him.
"You're making me uncomfortable."

*

MATT HEARD
his name on the public address
system. The announcement told him to go to the main information
desk. It might be a trick. The local police wouldn't know him by
sight, but they might be watching in the lounge to see who came
forward to answer the call.

"I will find out who it is," offered
Zoé. "You stay here and watch me. I will signal to you if it is all
right."

"We'll go together." Matt felt
resigned to whatever lay ahead. "Our evidence took off with the
Heinmans. But you'll see, we'll get justice. Urquet will help us.
I've got confidence in that man."

It was Simon Urquet on the phone. Matt
felt a surge of relief. Yes, Urquet agreed, Sophie's heart attack
had been exceptionally convincing. It had certainly fooled him. He
laughed as he recalled Madame Boissant collapsing on the floor of
his office. If they came back to DCI he could give them some news.
And please, could he have his Porsche back?

Matt hesitated. "We'll have to take a
taxi. I'll ... tell you about your car later."

*

FOR OVER
an hour, Frank stared at his
son, all the time blaming the English soldier for this mess. As he
wiped the palms of his hands in his handkerchief, the tightness in
his chest became unbearable. He could see Captain Alec Rider as a
young man at the missile site, helping with the death of his
father. And now he could see him as the old man in the hospital.
All the time he could hear Matt Rider asking questions, making
accusations, intruding into DCI's secret past. He glanced at the
large signet ring on his middle finger. The green eye below the two
initials caught the cabin lights.

"It's time to stop, Jason. You and
Aziz are bastards!"

Jason must have smelt it. The faintest
scent. He leapt to his feet. "Berlitzan oil!"

Frank kept his hand deep in his jacket
pocket. "I'm opening them. One at a time. You're a fool, boy, and
you deserve to die. We all deserve to die."

Hammid Aziz jumped from his seat in
alarm. "What is matter?" he shouted. "Something bad is
smelling."

Frank let his anger take full control.
Anger beyond even his comprehension.

Jason seemed to know what to do. He
turned to Aziz. "I'm your friend. Don't get angry with me. Kill my
father, but don't kill me."