He pulled himself up short, got a refill, and headed back downstairs.
His telephone was ringing. He picked it up. “What?”
“Oh. You are there.”
He recognized the liquid voice instantly and dropped into his chair. “Shall I call you Juliana or J.J.?”
“Usually I’m called Miss Fall—or Ms. Fall.”
“Still mad, huh?”
“That’s irrelevant. Why didn’t you tell me Rachel Stein was dead?”
“Because you would have said, ‘Rachel who?’ I described her to you, if you’ll recall, and you said you didn’t know her. I didn’t think there was any point in telling you she was dead.”
“You were trying to trap me,” Juliana said. “Besides, you didn’t believe me anyway.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I might have told you more if you’d been honest with me.”
He felt himself grinning. “And I might have told you more if you’d been honest with me. Want to talk now?”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“Then why did you call?”
“I only met Rachel Stein once, but I—well, I want to know more about this story you’re half working on.”
“Why?”
He heard her take a breath, controlling herself; he irritated the hell out of her. “Curiosity, I guess,” she said stiffly.
“More interesting than painting your hair purple and dressing up in nutty clothes to play jazz? You’re bored, Juliana Fall, and I’ve got better things to do than to unbore you.” Then again…he thought, but left it at that.
“Do you know why Rachel Stein was with Senator Ryder on Saturday?” she asked, her voice cool now, distant and very calculating.
“No, do you?”
“Of course not. You and Senator Ryder know each other, don’t you? Why were you at the concert?”
“I like music,” Stark said. The woman was holding back on him, which was one thing. But holding back and expecting him to talk was another, and it pissed him off. “Let me ask you something, Ms. Fall. Are you any relation to a diamond cutter by the name of Johannes Peperkamp?”
Not a sound came out of her. Matthew leaned back, listening. Finally she said, even more cool, even more distant and calculating, “Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity, I guess,” he said, mimicking her.
He’d pushed her too far. She called him a bastard and hung up. He’d memorized her phone number when he went to her apartment, and he reached for the phone to call her back. But he stopped himself. What the hell was he doing? Juliana Fall had no business getting mixed up in anything that involved Otis Raymond and Sam Ryder. She was a pianist, for God’s sake. Let her get her kicks out of keeping Shuji from finding out about J.J. Pepper and Len Wetherall from finding out about Juliana Fall.
He put on his coat and went home.
Wilhelmina Peperkamp scrubbed a batch of clay pots in her tiny kitchen, oblivious to the bright morning winter sun screaming through her window. Her apartment was on the first floor of a restored seventeenth-century building in Delftshaven, where she had lived for the last forty years. Literally Delft’s harbor, it was the quietest, most picturesque section of Rotterdam and virtually the only one that had escaped the 1940 German bombings. The rebuilt Rotterdam was pleasant enough—likeable, efficient, and convenient. But it was the cobblestone streets and centuries-old buildings of Delftshaven Wilhelmina had grown to love.
She was elbow-deep in water and had just begun to have some success with the stubborn mildew on one of her pots when her telephone began ringing. She considered not answering, but she received so few calls she changed her mind. Grumbling to herself, she put down her stiff wire brush and wiped her hands on her apron as she picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“Willie…”
She recognized the soft, unhappy voice at once. “Catharina, what’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, Willie, I don’t mean to sound so upset—”
“Never mind,” Wilhelmina responded abruptly. She had spoken in Dutch, Catharina in English, automatically, as if it never occurred to her to speak in her native language. Ordinarily Wilhelmina would have remarked on her sister’s thorough Americanization. This time she didn’t. Catharina rarely called, least of all when something was bothering her, and Wilhelmina opted to speak in her own excellent English. “What is it, Catharina?”
“It’s Rachel—Rachel Stein. She’s dead, Willie. It was in the papers here.”
Rachel. Even after all these years, Wilhelmina thought, I can still see her lively, tiny face and the expressive eyes that had had no effect whatever on an officer of the Green Police. They were bastards, all of them. Nazis, Dutch Nazis. So filled with hate. That one had kicked Rachel like a dog and dragged her away—and Wilhelmina, too. But that was of no consequence; she’d failed to protect Rachel, and the Nazis had taken her away.
Now she was dead.
Wilhelmina reached for a cotton towel and dried her dripping forearms, cradling the phone between her shoulder and chin. She looked down at her hands, red and rough with work and age. They had never been pretty hands; she had never been a pretty woman. But her plainness hadn’t bothered her; she had other qualities.
“Willie?”
“I’m here.”
Her eyes remained tearless. She hadn’t cried in many, many years, although she had lost many friends. It was the worst part of growing old. Slowly, she sat at her small table where already a half-dozen of her clay pots were lined up, scrubbed and empty.
“I’m sorry to have told you so abruptly,” Catharina said. “I know it’s shocking.”
“How did she die?”
“She fell on the ice—an accident, they say.”
Wilhelmina was instantly alert. “You have doubts?”
“I don’t know. I—I don’t know what to think.”
“Tell me everything, Catharina.”
Haltingly, Catharina related the events since Rachel’s appearance at the bakeshop for tea, requesting corroboration of her story to Senator Ryder. Although she was alone, Wilhelmina refrained from showing any visible reaction to what she was hearing. Not since the winter of 1944—Hongerwinter, the Winter of Hunger—had she and Catharina discussed Hendrik de Geer or even spoken his name. There was no need. He was a man neither would ever forget. Wilhelmina had tried.
“I’m probably overreacting,” Catharina said. “But I don’t know. It’s late here; I haven’t been able to sleep. Juliana came by the shop earlier, and she’s asking so many questions. She—she’s asked me about Hendrik. I wouldn’t talk to her, I…Willie, how can I tell her? This doesn’t concern her! It can’t touch her—I won’t let it!”
“You’ve never told her about Amsterdam?” Wilhelmina tried to keep the condemnation out of her tone, but it was there; she could hear it herself. And of course Catharina would be listening for it.
“No, I did not. Don’t interfere, Willie. What I do or don’t tell my daughter is between us.”
“You were the one who called me,” Wilhelmina pointed out, her sister’s agitation all that kept her tone mild.
“I know! I thought…I don’t know now what I thought, just that you have a right to know about Rachel, I suppose. Maybe I thought you could help.” Catharina paused and gave a small, bitter laugh. “I always do, don’t I? Nothing’s changed. Oh, Willie, I’m not blaming you. God knows I haven’t changed, either. When something goes wrong, who do I call? My big sister. I want you to be strong, Willie, I expect it, just as you expect me always to crumple and do as you say.”
“It’s all right,” Wilhelmina said, feeling tired. Catharina had Adrian, Juliana her piano, Johannes his diamonds. What did she have? Her pots of flowers. Well, she wouldn’t feel sorry for herself. Her flowers were enough.
“I’m probably being silly,” Catharina said, breathing deeply, nervously, and Wilhelmina felt her younger sister’s uncertainty, her dread of censure. Too many times she’d had big sister Willie tell her she was being foolish.
“When I saw Hendrik at Lincoln Center, at first I thought it must be my imagination.”
“Have you ever imagined seeing him before?”
“No, of course not.”
Wilhelmina had.
“It was so strange seeing him again,” Catharina went on, calmer now. “He’s the same.”
Wilhelmina snorted. “Did you think he’d be any different?”
“I suppose not. I—I can’t believe he had anything to do with Rachel’s death. It must have been an accident.”
“Perhaps.”
“I’m not afraid, Willie, I wouldn’t want you to think that—not for myself, anyway.”
“For Juliana?”
“Yes.”
Wilhelmina had to smile at her sister’s eternal naiveté. “Catharina, please. Hendrick would never hurt Juliana.”
“You sound so sure.”
“I am. Don’t you see? Juliana’s your daughter. Hendrik could no more hurt her than he could you.”
Catharina cried out in surprise and disbelief. “But he did hurt me!”
“Not in any way he would understand. In the mind of Hendrik de Geer, he saved you. That’s all he knows.”
“Willie…”
Her hands were trembling, but she blamed age rather than emotion. “Call me if there’s anything more.”
“What should I do about Juliana?”
“If I were you, I would tell her everything.”
“No.”
“But, of course, I’m not you. Just—how do you say it? Lay low, I believe. Do nothing. Juliana will stop asking questions soon enough. Now that Rachel is dead and any threat against him eliminated, Hendrik will simply disappear. He must be very good at that by now.”
“You really think he will?”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“Because he was at Lincoln Center on Saturday. If he was going to disappear, wouldn’t he have done it then?”
Not if he came to kill Rachel he wouldn’t, Wilhelmina thought. But Hendrik had never been one to do his own killing. Catharina had a point—one, of course, Wilhelmina had already considered.
“Unless you want to go after Hendrik yourself, Catharina, there’s nothing else you can do but pretend you never saw him on Saturday.”
“How—how could I go after him myself?”
“That’s something you must answer for yourself. I cannot.”
“I have to go, before I wake Adrian.”
“You’ve not told him what’s been happening?”
“Of course not. Goodbye, Willie.”
Wilhelmina was appalled, but she said goodbye and hung up. She made herself some café au lait, ignoring the sinkful of flowerpots. Hendrik de Geer. She’d hoped he was dead, although she’d never believed it. She took her coffee into the living room and sat on her chair by the window, watching her narrow, picturesque street. She missed the pots of begonias that had stood on her windowsill. They’d all become diseased and died. Perhaps it was an omen.
“No matter,” she said aloud, accustomed to talking to herself after so many years of living alone. “They were old enough to die.”
Johannes Peperkamp stood on the deck of the old cargo ship and looked out at the busy Amsterdam harbor. It was still early, very cool, and the ship was an old one that smelled of bad fish and rancid oil. He remembered how he’d dreamed of being a sailor when he was a boy, and home sick for days with influenza. While he was recovering, his father had sat with him and filled his head with another dream, the legend of the Minstrel’s Rough. The Minstrel had made the Peperkamp diamond tradition real for Johannes, something that was exciting and mysterious. For a long time now, that excitement and mystery had been absent. Diamonds were work. They provided a living. That was all.
He had been looking out at the city since dawn, watching it slowly rise out of the darkness into the new day. Not since Ann’s death had he been back to Amsterdam. For both of them, it had been a city of painful memories. But she’d wanted her ashes brought to the Jodenhoek, the old Jewish quarter, and he’d acceded to her wish. During the sixteenth century, thousands of Jews had fled to Amsterdam for its tolerance and religious freedom. With them, they’d brought diamonds and their knowledge of the gems. They were predominantly Sephardic Jews escaping persecution in Lisbon and Antwerp, and their diamond money had helped finance the Dutch East India Company. With it, Amsterdam could establish its own route to India and become the main European port of entry for diamonds. The Netherlands’ golden age followed, and it became for a time the major seafaring nation of the world.
In 1940, Nazi Germany invaded, violating Dutch neutrality, imposing and encouraging intolerance and hatred. After four hundred Jewish men were rounded up, beaten and deported in early 1941, the Dutch responded with a general strike. The furious Reichskommissar, Dr. Arthur Seyss-Inquart, the Viennese attorney who’d engineered the Anschluss of Austria with the German Third Reich, crushed quickly and brutally crushed the strike. Resistance moved underground. Before the Allies liberated all of The Netherlands in the spring of 1945, seventy-five percent of its Jewish population—one hundred thousand people—had been killed.
Ann had been one who lived. A part of her, at least.
The old cutter’s eyes filled with unbidden tears. How happy they’d been before the war! And even after, when they’d still had each other. Now he felt so tired. The brisk morning air didn’t penetrate his fatigue as a kaleidoscope of images from the past spun around him. Perhaps Wilhelmina was right—he should have killed Hendrik de Geer when he’d had the opportunity, before, in Amsterdam. But he’d been unable to believe Hendrik had actually betrayed them. Wilhelmina had accused her brother of being overly sentimental. Perhaps she was right about that, too. Hendrik had been his friend.
Hendrik, Hendrik…damn you, why?
Blinking back the tears, Johannes pictured his niece, so young, so beautiful, so talented. He’d seen Juliana just twice, for brief visits, since Delftshaven seven years ago. Neither had mentioned the Minstrel’s Rough.
I should never have given it to her, he thought, ashamed. At the time, he’d felt himself growing old, felt keenly the recent loss of his wife, the knowledge that there was no one to carry on the Minstrel tradition. He’d decided it was his duty to pass the legendary rough on to Juliana, to let her choose the course of its future. A cowardly way out, perhaps. Forty years ago, Catharina had begged him to toss it into the sea. From the moment she first saw the diamond, she’d hated it. She always would. The tradition meant nothing to her. It had been soiled by Amsterdam. By Hendrik de Geer’s betrayal.
Perhaps he should have listened to her as well.
He became aware he was no longer alone on the deck, but he neither looked around nor changed position. Hendrik left him alone much of the time, because, after all, Johannes was an old man and what could he do? He’d considered throwing himself overboard into the icy waters of the canal but realized his suicide would accomplish nothing. Hendrik would only find another way to get hold of the Minstrel. He would go to his sisters…eventually to Juliana. No, the best Johannes could hope for was to buy time for the others—to give them a chance to find out he was missing, to figure out what was happening, and to take precautions. For once, he appreciated the careful, suspicious mind of the older of his two sisters. Wilhelmina would guess what was going on. She would act.
So he would wait, he thought, and looked up into the cold face of Hendrik de Geer.
“You look tired, Johannes,” the younger Dutchman said.
The old diamond cutter shrugged. “I’m old; I get tired.”
“I know you, Johannes, perhaps even better than you know yourself.” Hendrik pulled his watch cap down over his ears. Despite the sharp wind, Johannes wore neither hat nor gloves. “You haven’t given up. You’re still trying to think of a way out of this.”
Johannes turned back to the water, saying nothing. What was there to say? Hendrik did know him.
“There is no way.” The younger Dutchman’s tone was curiously
quiet. “We’re caught between two opposing sides, as we were before.”
“As you were, Hendrik,” Johannes replied, aware his one-time friend was referring to the war, when the Dutch had tried to remain neutral in the face of German aggression, as they had successfully in the first World War. “I was against the Nazis from the beginning. I was never noncommittal. You, Hendrik—you have always been just for yourself.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” There was no self-condemnation in his tone, only acceptance—resignation. “But that doesn’t change anything. You know that getting the Minstrel won’t be enough. You’ll have to cut it as well, and you’re thinking, ah ha, this is my chance. I can make the wrong cut, use too much pressure, whatever is necessary to render the Minstrel worthless. And you think that will be the end of it. But it won’t be, Johannes. As you said, I’m not doing this on my own. Me, I would kill you for the trouble, maybe, and move on, cut my losses. You know that’s my way. But the men I work for aren’t like me. They believe in vengeance, and they don’t like loose ends.”
Johannes sniffed. “That’s not my concern.”
“It is, Johannes. Think of your sisters. Think of your niece.”
Johannes turned to the man he had once called his most trusted friend, and he felt a tug of emotion, in spite of everything. What had happened to turn Hendrik into this? He had aged, his skin weathering, marred by the brown spots of age, lines cutting deep into his face, muscles sagging, although not as much as in other men of seventy. But in Hendrik de Geer, always so strong and agile and fierce in Johannes’s memory, the signs of advancing years were a particular shock—a reminder of how long ago Amsterdam had been, of how young Hendrik had been. Johannes thought suddenly: had they all asked too much of him? But no. There was no excuse. Much more had been asked of even younger men.
Cut and Run Page 13