Hands of the Traitor (12 page)

"
In the dark?
You surely don't think a trade
association is going to treat your letter in confidence." Louise
didn't sound critical, just matter of fact. She might be saying it
to make him think he couldn't manage without her.

He shrugged. "Why should they worry
about a simple question?"

"If you worked here, you'd know that
most of the innocent sounding inquiries have a hidden
agenda."

"So?"

"We're here to protect our members, so
we let them know if anyone's interested in them. If you've written
to NATA, your request will have been flagged up with DCI for
sure."

"I marked it confidential. What else
could I have done?"

"You should have come to me. I could
have found out everything you wanted in the company records, and no
one would have been the wiser."

"I didn't want to bother you." He
spoke cautiously, as though treading on thin ice that could break
without warning. "Is it too late to ask for help now?"

"No problem. Alistair's away at a
conference. I can stay on this evening and see what I can
unearth."

Alistair? So that was his name. Louise
hadn't told him before.

The confrontation he'd feared hadn't
materialized. Louise sounded composed and reasonable, but this was
not the way it would be if they got close again. In spite of his
wondering, in spite of his uncertainty, he could see they were no
longer right for each other. The magic had leaked away slowly.
Alistair wasn't the reason they'd finished. It was over before
Alistair came on the scene. They'd stayed together for too long,
for no good reason other than a bit of comfort, like a pair of
shoes long overdue for replacement. Well done, Alistair, for
turning up at the right time. And good luck for the
future.

"You're smiling," Louise said in
surprise.

"I want to say thanks. For
everything." He moved forward and gave her a small hug.

Louise pulled away, but not too
quickly. "I'll drop a folder off at Ken's office if I can get
anything useful. There's no need for you to call here."

In other words, keep away. And she
wouldn't come round to his place either. Not that he expected her
to. Ken's office was neutral ground.

"What's it all about?" she
asked.

"It's family business."

She just nodded. He was glad he didn't
have to explain. At the bottom of the marble staircase he turned to
wave, but Louise had gone.

He put his head round the door of the
downstairs reception office as he left. The dragon still
glowered.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Could you do something for me when
Alistair gets back from his conference?"

She looked stuffy and uptight. To her,
Alistair was probably always known as Mister someone. "What do you
want me to do?"

"Give him a big kiss."

"
Mr. Rider!
"

"From me."

Saint Somer,
Pas-de-Calais, France

Cher Monsieur
Rider,

Following the tragic
incident at the construction site which falls within my district, I
have found it necessary to talk to many of the older inhabitants in
an attempt to unravel the past. This has given me the opportunity
to ask about the woman you call Sophie Bernay.

I believe that the person
you wish to meet is now called Mme Sophie Boissant, who lived in
the area until 1945. She was at that time known as Mlle Sophie
Bernay and has since returned to take up residence here.

You will understand my
reservation at not passing her address directly on to you, since I
do not know the purpose of your investigation. If you wish to get
in touch with Mme Boissant by letter, I will be pleased to forward
any correspondence.

Accept my
felicitations,

Alain Oudet

Mayor

Matt read the letter three times
before leaving for work. In his lunch break he wrote a long letter
to Sophie, in French, and posted it to Mayor Oudet. Sophie was the
crucial player in this puzzle. He was already beginning to wish
he'd not contacted New York.

New York

THE PAPERS
had reported the Dutchman's
massacre in detail. It definitely sounded like the effects of
Berlitzan oil. The project had surfaced like a bloated corpse at
sea, like the rotting body he'd seen being pulled from the East
River one fog-bound morning on his way to school.

Frank Heinman sat uncomfortably in his
favorite armchair in the Manhattan brownstone that had been the
family home for three generations, and threw the file of newspaper
cuttings onto the table. The rings in the picture were the DCI
signet rings. One ring found by the mad Dutchman, and the other
photographed on an old soldier's hand in England. The old soldier
must be the Englishman with the Sten, the madman who had mutilated
his father back in '44. He'd not known his name before. Alec Rider.
Captain Alec Rider.

As soon as he heard about the trouble in
France, he knew what had happened. Gold, a bad smell, and then
anger. That treasure hunter had dug up one of the DCI gold
cylinders of Berlitzan oil. The press wanted to find the owner of
the ring and had started to look for someone with the initials DC.
The "I" bit seemed to escape them. Perhaps it was too clever for
the press. The rings were just a curiosity to the reporters,
something for the silly season, and the story looked like it was
dead already.

He opened the envelope to read again
the letter from Ingrid Rosestein at NATA. A PI called Matt Rider
had written to her from an English detective agency.

I am researching company
history for a client ... My client particularly needs to discover
if any members of the Heinman family died within this period ...
any Heinmans from DCI serving in Europe during the war ... Do you
know if DCI had a trading partner or subsidiary company operating
in Germany during this period? ... chemicals for military
use.

Ms. Rosestein was telling him she
thought he should be informed. Too damn right he should be! Matt
Rider could be Alec Rider's grandson. They came from the same town,
and one of these cuttings mentioned a grandson who was a PI. Just
what the hell was going on?

He stirred his cup as he stared at the
portraits on the wall of the front room he now used as his office.
Coffee slopped over the edge into the saucer. His right arm still
had occasional spasms.

"Miller!"

The chief executive officer was over
from DCI headquarters for his twice-weekly visit, going through a
batch of financial papers that required the ex-president's
approval.

He pointed to a cutting from
the English
Sun
newspaper. "Miller, see the gold rings in that
photograph?"

Miller came across and raised his
eyebrows.

"They're the DCI badges of office,
Miller. The private symbols of DCI."

"I didn't know." Miller sounded
surprised. "Must have been a long time ago, Frank. There's not much
to sign today, but we need to discuss some short-term
investments."

"I thought the design up. I was thirteen
at the time." Frank felt an unexpected pride at the memory. "Father
ordered two rings from Tiffany's."

"And then you lost them?" Miller
seemed more amused than puzzled. He put the papers on the table.
"But you didn't reorder?"

"Hell no!"

Two DCI signet rings. One for his
father's left hand, and the promise of the other ring as soon as
they returned safely from France, four weeks before his
twenty-first.

Frank, my son, our trip to
France to meet the Germans will be your best birthday present ever.
It will form real character.

His father had been right: the events
in France were extremely formative. Helping an Englishman and a
French girl mutilate your father beyond recognition had a profound
effect on character.

"Nineteen forty-four was a fateful year
for DCI, Miller. We were taking a look at some poison gas -- for
the Nazis."

"I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't. No one knows
but me. But it's left the company with a small problem."

"How small, Frank?"

The CEO sounded like Skorensky with
his weasel questions. "We weren't making it or anything. Hell no.
The Nazis sent us a sample to look at. We threw it straight back at
them. Naturally."

Miller smiled but there was nothing
reassuring about the smile. "Naturally, Frank. And I'm sure you're
right, it will only be a small problem."

Why did chief executive officers
always have a smug way of answering questions, pretending they knew
a lot more than they should? "It had better be small, Miller!" he
retorted.

Miller tipped his head back as though
the ceiling would give inspiration. "Does Jason know about
this?"

"You just do as I tell you, Miller,
and no more."

Miller shook his head and drew his
breath in sharply. "Your son has to be told, Frank. He's president
of the company now."

Jason had to be told all right, but he
would probably say he was too busy with today's problems to get
involved with the past. Company history had never been of interest
to his son. There was a way to make sure of Jason's help -- if
Hammid Aziz was prepared to co-operate. Hammid Aziz, the slippery
arms dealer who had once crossed paths with DCI. Could the man be
trusted? He touched his chin. Even the scar felt tender today, so
strong were the memories.

"Miller, there's a PI in England
called Rider. It looks like he's cracked the meaning of those
rings. His grandfather is in some sort of clinic, and the old
fellow's been talking about a German missile site. God knows what
the two of them could tell the press."

Miller looked up sharply. "Maybe DCI
is not so innocent?"

"Miller, I need those rings. Modern
Nazi hunters aren't fools."

"And you're involved, Frank?
Personally, I mean."

"Hell, Miller, I reckon I am. The
Americans would never forgive DCI if the truth got out."

"Then I'll have to tell Jason
immediately," insisted Miller. "If you'll excuse me saying it,
Frank, you're not the president any longer."

"
No!
" He banged the coffee table. "I want you to drop
everything and go to England where Matt Rider is making himself a
real pain in the ass. I want to know what sort of man he is. Look
in the local journals. Ask around a bit. Let me know what people
are saying. Find out if the press over there has lost interest yet.
Got it!"

Within twenty-four hours the CEO boarded
the ageing DCI Gulfstream II, leaving Teterboro in New Jersey for
Heathrow, England. He felt uneasy about the whole undertaking.
Frank Heinman's son Jason, now the new president, should definitely
have been told. Jason Heinman could get angry at times.

Chapter
11

England

KEN HABGOOD
pushed his leather captain's
chair away from the desk as Matt entered the office. He was all
smiles. "Come in here a minute, Matt. I want a little
chat."

It sounded like bad news. "What's
happened, Ken?"

"I don't suppose you know any American
newspaper reporters?"

"Personally?"

Ken shrugged. He'd stopped smiling
now. "An American called here earlier. He seemed to know you. I
spotted he was a phony straight away."

"What did he want?"

"He asked a few questions about you
and your family. Said he was doing a follow-up on your
grandfather's story. I gave him your home address."

"American? He wasn't called
Heinman was he?" Louise was right; his inquiry
had
been flagged up with DCI.

"Miller. I soon sent him
packing."

The name came as something of a
relief. "Was he driving?"

Ken's eyes lit up. "A big dark Ford,
but he didn't park it here. Left it down the road by the
shops."

"And?"

"He took off before I could get the
registration number."

"You said he asked
questions."

"Nothing important."

Matt perched himself on the edge of
Ken's bare desktop. "That letter I sent to New York could have been
a mistake. I may have uncovered something big. And I mean
big."

"A wealthy client for us?" Ken pulled
his red leather chair back to the desk, probably hearing the ring
of cash registers. He motioned with his hand for Matt to stand
up.

Matt moved to lean against the wall.
"There's no money in this, Ken. Not if my grandfather killed the
wartime president of Domestic Chemicals."

Ken sounded disappointed. "That's that
then. If it all ends in tears, remember what I told
you."

"Not to mess with DCI." He was through
with Ken's evasive sense of humor. "Did you say anything to Miller
about the Heinmans or Domestic Chemicals?"