“Pieter von Farben?”
“Yes. I need to know who he is.”
Jess released an exhausted breath and closed her eyes. “You know so much about this family. I understand now why you seemed so surprised to discover someone like me had married into it.”
“What happened back there? What do you know?”
Jess opened her eyes and glanced at him. “Let’s say, killing me to prevent me ever claiming the Thomas property was second to Alexander McCormack’s hatred of the color of my skin. But I’d already gleaned that piece of information from Jason’s ex-wife. You could’ve told me when you first met me,” she admonished calmly.
“You could’ve trusted me,” Drew parried mildly. “I told you about Sean. You could have told me then and there who you were.”
“It was too late. I was already married to Jason.” Jess sighed. “It seems like a lifetime ago,” she whispered.
“Are you still thinking about divorcing him?”
“Now, even more than ever. I’m tired, Drew. Tired of picking out the truth from among the lies. Tired of second guessing my judgment.”
“You can’t believe everything Alexander McCormack said—”
“Yes, I can,” Jess said. “I can. I want out. I’ve come close to losing my life, twice. Sean can’t ask anymore of me than I’ve already given and Jason—”
She hesitated, fingering the photo outlined against the pocket of her jeans. “Jason is a mistake that’s easily put right.”
“Brave words, but I don’t believe them.”
“Right now, I really don’t care what you or anyone else believes.”
“You’re running away,” Drew challenged.
“And what if I am?” Tears rose in her eyes and fell down her cheeks. “I got sucker punched, Drew and the thing is I went into this with my eyes wide open. I thought I knew what I was doing. I thought I knew him.”
“Don’t confuse Jason with his father, Jess.”
“What?” With incredulity Jess quickly wiped the tears from her face as she focused on Drew’s words.
“Jason’s not to blame for any of this,” Drew added. “In fact—”
She refused to let him finish. “In fact, he’s on some errand for his father. Did you know that? It all makes perfect sense, why I haven’t seen him since I got back to England. Why he would send someone to collect me, to bring me to Scotland, to his father.”
“That man was Grant Wesson. An FBI agent.”
“So what.” That fact hardly surprised her. “Everyone has a price,” she retorted.
She closed her eyes, remembering her shared moment of intimacy with Jason before she got shot.
“My father’s a very clever man,” he’d said. “He plays to our weaknesses and then takes control of our lives. With Sean it was money and a sense of power.”
“And you?” she’d asked him.
“I never had a weakness, Jessica, until I met you.”
Jess raised her fingers to where Jason had caressed her face. It seemed like a lifetime ago. She grimaced. It hadn’t been his father playing to her weakness. Jason had done that.
“Give me two days, Jess,” Drew said, breaking through her thoughts.
“For what?” she challenged. “No. I have to think of Jake now. Alexander McCormack is dead—”
“Which means you could be in even more danger, Jess.”
Jess smiled wryly. “You keep saving me, Drew. I trust you to do it again.”
“Then I need to know where you are. Give me the two days, Jess. That’s all I ask.”
“Can you promise me this will all be over then, Drew?”
Drew tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “It has to be, Jess.”
* * * *
Later that night, Drew drove Jess, her son and her mother to a safe house in London and then went to meet Colin at O’Casey’s.
Colin swiped his hand across his face as Drew recounted the events of the past hours.
“I’m not sure what surprises me most,” he said. “Knowing Alexander McCormack is dead or that you acted like a one-man crusader. Marsters is going to be furious.”
“That’s why I need your help, Col. Give me something to balance this out. To keep this in perspective.”
Colin laughed lightly. “Well, I would trade your dead FBI agent and several hours in a Scottish cell for a conspiracy to secure votes by intimidation, violence and bribery, but I’ve already filled Marsters in on that. He’s called in Homeland Security. Special Operations are taking it from here.”
“Why? What did you find?”
“That a lot of people who were struggling to afford basic rent in rundown council flats in around the City of London and High Wycombe had healthy bank accounts. They’d bought brand new cars, been on expensive holidays and were planning on buying new homes after the elections.”
“The elections?”
“Exactly. We had a long list of names and addresses to sift through, but thanks to DC Watts’ own investigation we compared a few names and addresses already in our databases. Quite a number of these same people, splashing out thousands of pounds had filed reports of racial attacks in the last three months. But Homeland Security is dealing with all that and Bernard Greene’s in custody. Oh, and Viktor Marinescu alias Nicolae Nastase has disappeared.”
Colin paused briefly. “We may never get to the bottom of this case, but I need to know if we’ve saved Adnan Oric.”
“Alexander McCormack’s death may have saved Adnan Oric, for now,” Drew answered.
Drew’s next stop was to see Marsters. He’d seen his superior angry before, but never at a level so intense.
“You bulldog your way up there,” Marsters yelled, pointing a finger agitatedly at a report lying on his desk. “Leaving bodies in your wake. Just what in God’s name were you thinking?”
“About protecting Jessica McCormack,” Drew stated calmly. “I didn’t kill McCormack or Wesson—”
“No, you merely knee-capped him,” Marsters interrupted. “You’d better damn well tell me you got something worthwhile out of him, if only to justify your unauthorized presence at the McCormack estate.”
“A name,” Drew answered. “Pieter von Farben. Colin’s searching the databases as we speak for any information on him.”
“Then you’d better pray he finds something, Drew. Where’s Mrs. McCormack now?”
“At a safe house since last night.”
“Surveillance?”
“No,” Drew said. “Roane and Birney still haven’t reported in and I’m not trusting anyone else with this information.” Marsters raised a querying brow.
“You’re not suggesting two of my detectives were bribed into handing over Mrs. McCormack?”
“I don’t know, sir, but I feel I need to err on the side of caution. We’ve no idea how deeply this goes.”
“How deeply what goes?”
A sharp rap at the door interrupted Drew’s supposition. Colin poked his head into the room.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” he said, addressing Marsters. “But I think I’ve found something.”
Both Drew and Marsters leaned over Colin’s shoulder as he activated the FBI file on “I.G. Farben”.
“How did you access…? No! Don’t tell me,” Marsters said.
“I.G Farben was a German chemical, film and pharmaceutical giant,” Colin began. “In nineteen twenty-six the company entered into a cartel agreement with another largely important and dominating American company, Standard Oil owned and run by J.D. Rockefeller. Farben agreed to stay out of synthetic oil in return for Standard Oil representing Farben in the States. Now, here’s where it gets murky,” Colin added.
He pressed the page down button on the computer keyboard and new information scrolled upward on the screen.
“The subsequent consequence of this agreement was in World War II. Standard Oil supplied the Nazis with petroleum in spite of shortages in the U.S. It supplied a rare lead additive that the Luftwaffe needed to fly. In
return, Rockefeller got a cut of Farben’s other business, which included the many factories that employed slave labor from concentration camps.
“I did a little more searching in the FBI files and found something else of interest,” Colin said. “Throughout the late thirties Wall Street investment banks managed to procure a lot of Jewish owned banks, breweries, factories and shops for thirty per cent of their true value. After the war William Draper was put in charge of dismantling German industry, and distributing it among the allies. Needless to say that didn’t happen, his Wall Street associates owned too much of it. Nazi businessmen remained in positions of power. War criminals were transported to South America or took top jobs within the CIA and…the FBI. Which brings us neatly to Nicolae Nastase and the reason Grant Wesson didn’t want us digging into Nastase’s past. Nicolae Nastase worked for the FBI.”
“I guess we know now,” Drew said. He turned to Marsters.
“Here’s something else the FBI wouldn’t have wanted made public,” Marsters said reading over Colin’s shoulder. “A list of American corporations that had an equivalent of eight billion dollars invested in Nazi Germany. I doubt they would’ve wanted their soldiers to know American factories were building the airplanes that dropped bombs on them or built Nazi trucks and tanks. But who did Wesson work for? The FBI or this Cartel?”
“Somewhere within the FBI there’s probably a small group that’s one and the same,” Drew surmised. “It’s my guess he was sent to make sure we didn’t find out too much. If we did he would have killed us. As it happens he was eliminated by the Cartel.”
“Pieter von Farben,” Colin stated. “I don’t think we’ll ever catch him.”
“How can you be so sure?” Drew asked.
“I. G Farben is a chemical conglomerate that took its name from the German dye industry. Interessen-Gemeinschaft Farbenindustrie.”
“So, Farben isn’t even his name?” Drew said.
“No. I’m afraid not. This man could be related to any one of the thousands of workers of the six major companies that merged in nineteen twenty-six to form I. G. Farben. It’ll be virtually impossible to hunt him down,” Colin said. “Like chasing a ghost.”
“The Cartel, if it is what we’re dealing with here is a powerful ruling entity, a government above a government. They are the puppet masters and at this moment we may have to content ourselves with just being able to disrupt their plan,” Marsters said.
“But you two should be proud of yourselves. We’ve cut off one head of this monster and we’re in the process of derailing the plan to bring the BNP to power. We’ve done our job.”
“If Sean Wright hadn’t died we could’ve been facing a very different scenario in a couple of months,” Colin said.
“Like Bosnia,” Drew said. “Only instead of war creating the fear, instability and ethnic cleansing camouflaged under nationalism, it would be the politics of fanaticism, xenophobia and fascism, more subtle but just as devastating in the hands of ignorant men and youth, soldiers or otherwise.”
“Write your reports. I’ll brief the Home Secretary tomorrow,” Marsters stated. “And then go home and get some sleep.”
Drew walked to his office and sat down heavily in his chair behind his desk.
“Pieter von Farben,” he murmured. “Who are you?” And why is Nicolae Nastase walking around like a living zombie.
He leaned back and chuckled quietly to himself. Sleep. He needed it. His thoughts were becoming way too strange. Even for him. At least Jess was safe.
The phone rang.
“I’ve been waiting for you to call,” he said, knowing without doubt who was on the other end.
“I want to give you every possible chance to stop me.”
“I have, Jason. Your father’s dead.”
“You?”
“No.”
“I’ll be in England tomorrow.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Four months later
Tomorrow was Jake’s birthday. Jessica had waited until the very last minute to buy his gift. He’d wanted the toy for so long and she’d promised him he could have it—she half-walked, half-ran to the toyshop. There was only five minutes before closing time. She slipped through the door and mouthed her thanks to the security guard who’d held it open. She ran up the steps leading to the first floor and darted down the aisle marked “Technical and Mechanical Toys.”
“Bionicle,” she whispered.
Jake had made her stress each syllable so she wouldn’t forget. She reached for the toy and then froze as her name reached her ears. It was intense in its softness and painful in its tenderness.
“Jessica. Will you marry me?”
It couldn’t be.
His voice resonated through her. Her fingers tightened as she fought to steady her nerves and calm her heart. She’d always been prepared and resolved to confront their past, but she was fearful too of coming face to face with it again. She took a deep breath and spun around. And frowned, because she was completely alone.
Then, she heard a woman’s laugh, her soft sound of joy rippling through the near empty store.
Jess stared for a bewildered moment about her, and then edged toward the top of the stairs. She leaned over the glass partition serving as barrier and decoration and spotted them on the ground floor. A man and a woman embracing each other in the aisle marked “Baby’s First Toys.”
She must have said yes.
Disappointment and bitterness tinged her well-meaning thought and Jess turned away no longer wishing to intrude on their private moment. She leaned against the glass divider. How could she think it’d been Jason? They were still married, so he wouldn’t propose again, would he? Idiot!
She pushed herself upright and slowly descended the stairs.
Madeley was far behind her and she’d rebuilt her quiet, stable life in Wembley. She didn’t need Jason coming back and upsetting that.
Jake had been a little confused, at first, but he’d soon adapted to the change. She couldn’t help but notice how quickly he’d grown in the last months, accommodating the adjustments in his life and events about him with mature ease. Perhaps that’s why she’d insisted on avoiding Drew and any reminders of all that had gone before.
Alexander McCormack was dead and Jason was gone from their lives. All she and Jake needed was time to heal and room to get on with their lives. Yet, she could never really move forward until she’d divorced Jason. The papers had long been drawn up. She only required Jason’s signature to make it final.
She’d been fine and content with the decision, that is until she’d heard her name. Another man had uttered it, yet she’d been unnerved by the coincidence because she’d been thinking of Jason at that exact same moment.
He’d left four months earlier. Just like that, without a note. Without a goodbye. After all they’d been through, it’d been Drew who’d told her. That’d hurt. But it was her fault. She’d pushed Jason away. She got her wish, although that didn’t stop her heart from breaking. And it was breaking again.
She rushed to the checkout, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall. She didn’t pay particular attention to where she was going after that or which bus she caught or where she alighted. But she found herself standing outside her flat glad that Jake was spending the night with her mother. She turned the key in the lock. She would be fine after a long hot bath and a goodnight’s sleep. And tomorrow she would smile again and pretend to the world that she was all right.
* * * *
Jess sat on the small bench under the apple tree in her mother’s garden. She watched Jake play with his friends and silently thanked God the day had turned out to be warm and sunny. She couldn’t imagine eight energetic and noisy children running in and about the house. Jake caught her eye and grinned. He’d made friends easily, which pleased her. His friends had become a welcome distraction.
Her mother entered the garden holding a flat parcel. It was wrapped, but Jess couldn’t help but think it strange someone wo
uld send Jake a present in such colorless and mundane paper.
“For you,” her mother said.
“Me?” Jess exclaimed. “Are you sure? It’s not my birthday.”
“Perhaps it’s not a present, but a gift.”
“Is there a difference, then? But who would send me a present or a gift.”
Jess fingered the flat package and turned it repeatedly over in her hands.
“I don’t know,” her mother replied. “I opened the door and there it was with your name on it. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jess, open the darn thing.”
Jess laughed. “See. I knew you were chomping at the bit.”
Jake’s sudden call caught both their attention, but it was his grandmother who went to assist, pulling out a handkerchief and aiming it straight at the trail of ice-cream on his chin.
Jess ripped the paper open and her smile faded. She stared at the title deed in her hand. Realization jump-started her brain and she ran from the garden, through the house and yanked open the front door.
She ran out the gate to the main road and saw him in the distance, leaning against his black car. It was intense just seeing him again after so many months. His long denim-clad legs crossed at the ankle, his bowed head, his arms crossed over his chest. She pressed a hand to her stomach, calming the tumultuous emotions rising inside her. Anger, relief, grief. Love.
He suddenly raised his head, turning in her direction. She took a breath, feeling incredibly self-conscious beneath his gaze. She wrestled with the awkwardness that accompanied not seeing someone in a long time, reminding herself that she’d pushed him away.
She neared him, hiding the loneliness and the hurt of her regret behind a wall of indifference and resentment. Their gaze met, his eyes lambent in the bright sunlight.
“I can’t accept this,” she said.
She held the deed firmly out for him to take.
Jason raised an eyebrow, but didn’t take the document. “Are you selling it to me?”
“It’s in your name, isn’t it? Your father put the property in your name.”
“Yes. And my lawyers have rectified that state of affairs. The estate is yours. It has always been yours. I’ve made it right, Jessica.”
Blood of His Fathers (Sinners and Saints) Page 28