His destination, the West Side karate dojo, was on the second floor, above a vacated storefront. No sign advertised its function; it was not even listed in the telephone directory.
Once upstairs, he felt as he always did, that he was crossing a threshold and stepping into another world.
The loft was bright, airy, high-ceilinged, and functional, the city kept at bay by shoji screens covering the windows. The wooden floor was varnished, and gleamed with a mirror finish. Mats covered half the area.
On three of them, pairs of fighters thrust, feinted, and parried, their shouts and expelled breaths mingling with the noise of body slams.
Unlike most dojos in the city, visitors were not welcome, which was what had attracted Hannes here in the first place. To him, the martial arts were not spectator sports, nor were they to be taken lightly. They were solemn rituals requiring a lifetime's commitment, and he honed them with a religious fervor. They demanded the concentration of all one's powers— peak physical condition, a deep, emotional intensity, superb intelligence, razor-sharp alertness, timing, and speed.
The reward was confidence, fearlessness, and caution. Plus the powerful knowledge that one's body was ready to give its ultimate performance, anytime, anywhere.
And while practice made perfect, it did more than keep him in mere fighting shape. The physical and mental workouts cleansed his mind and mended his spirit.
So it was for all who came here. None of them were beginners. None of them showed off unneccesarily. In one way or another, budo, the martial path, was a way of life.
"Ah. Mr. Hockert." Hannes was greeted with a polite bow by a slight, white-haired Japanese who was dressed in the traditional loose white cotton pajamas and a black cotton belt.
"Good afternoon, sensei," Hannes replied, bowing even lower, to show his respect to the other man.
Yoshihira Fujikawa, the founder of this dojo, did not look dangerous, but he had a seventh degree black belt in karate, and was a master of Jun Fan kickboxing, judo, and jujitsu, as well.
"If you wish, Mr. Hockert, I have time to give you a personal workout."
"I would be much honored, sensei," Hannes replied humbly, bowing again. "But today I came to work off my aggression."
The sensei locked eyes with him, and nodded. "Hai. Then it is best you practice alone."
Hannes went into the locker room and changed into the same white outfit which the sensei wore. He, too, was a black belt. Then he walked out into the dojo and selected an empty mat.
First, the warm-up.
He rolled his head from side to side, then stretched his neck and arms frontward, backward, and from side to side. Hunched and unhunched his shoulders. Made certain he missed nothing—legs, spine, ankles, knees. No tendon was unimportant, no part of the body skimped upon.
Finally, twenty minutes later, he launched himself against an imaginary opponent, in today's case, Charley Ferraro. Pummeled him with high kicks—front, back, sideways. Switched to lightning punches, pulverizing the air with blurring hands and fists, putting the power of his hips behind him, always bracing himself against the envisioned impact with the enemy.
Soon he was exercising at peak form, one foot firmly anchored, his torso perfectly balanced. Focusing his muscles, he transmitted an awesome power, his mind and body a superb machine.
Finally he whipped himself up into a devastating fury of smooth kicks and punches, swiveling on one leg, lashing out high with the other.
In his mind he saw Charley stunned, staggering around in a jerking dance of death until he slowly collapsed in a lifeless heap.
Hannes became absolutely still, took a series of deep breaths, and then turned and headed to the locker room.
"Mr. Hockert," Yoshihira Fujikawa called quietly.
Hannes walked over to him. "Yes, sensei?"
The Japanese's face was expressionless. "I was watching you. Your form was the best I have yet seen."
Hannes bowed. "Thank you, sensei."
"Tell me," Fujikawa said, "were so many killing strikes truly necessary?"
Hannes looked down. "I let myself get carried away."
"Indeed. You must have battled a true enemy."
"Yes, sensei, I have."
"One word of caution, Mr. Hockert. Do not forget what Sun Tzu has written. 'To subdue the enemy without fighting shows the highest level of skill. Thus, what is supreme is to attack the enemy's strategy.' "
"I shall not forget, sensei," Hannes said softly.
When he returned to the office from the dojo, he ignored Charley, who sat with his feet casually up on a desk, taking giant bites out of a shiny red apple.
"Fax came for you," Charley said.
Hannes walked over to his own desk and uncurled the thermal paper. It was from his immediate superior.
The message was short and to the point:
24 Mar '95 18:55 INTERPOL PARIS PAGE 01
FACSIMILE MESSAGE
TO: Hannes Hockert, New York
FROM: Christophe Boutillier
Your letter requesting immediate reassignment was received. The request is denied.
C. Boutillier
Hannes showed no expression. He took the fax over to a filing cabinet and stuck it neatly in the appropriate folder.
Charley was watching him. "Funny, ain't it?" he said. "Seems we both tried to do the same thing on the same day. And we both struck out."
Hannes did not speak.
"Looks like we're stuck with each other."
Hannes shrugged.
"Way I see it," Charley said conversationally, taking another crisp bite out of his apple and talking while he chewed, "we can do either of two things. One, we can step outside and settle this like school kids. Or two, we can be gentlemen about it. Which is it to be?"
Hannes looked at him. "Since we obviously have no choice but to work together, we might as well behave like adults."
"My thoughts exactly."
Hannes smiled slightly. "And may the better man win."
"Good."
Charley swung his feet off the desk, tossed the remainder of the apple across the room, heard the satisfying clunk as it landed in the wastebasket, and got up.
"Now let's vamoose. Some Park Avenue princess is raising holy hell. Someone apparently broke in and stole her van Gogh. Might as well put her out of her misery."
Chapter 52
Thechauffeur opened the door of the Bentley and Karl-Heinz emerged first, turning to help Zandra out. Holding onto his hand, she ducked out and stared at the building. "It doesn't look like a clinic," she said softly.
"No," he agreed, "it doesn't."
She felt him take her by the hand. It was a robust, Belle Epoque mansion built of gray limestone. More than fifty feet wide and six stories high, it was sandwiched between two tall apartment buildings in the East Seventies, right off Fifth Avenue. Amazingly, it was set back behind a tall ornate wrought-iron fence, and there was a small cobbled front yard lined with topiaries.
No brass plaque identified its function as a fertility clinic. Nor even as a doctor's office. Only the house number, a gilded number 9, gleamed from within the wrought-iron scrolls.
Karl-Heinz opened a small gate set into two giant ones, and Zandra stepped inside and waited for him. Together, they crossed the cobbles and climbed the imposing front steps. The carved front door was polished, and flanked by massive coach lamps.
"Ready?" he asked her softly.
She nodded and took a deep breath. "Ready," she said.
He pressed the doorbell.
A tall young woman with blonde hair pulled back into a chignon opened the door. She wore a well-cut, salmon wool suit and expertly applied makeup. "May I help you?"
Karl-Heinz took a card from his pocket and handed it to her.
"Your Serene Highnesses," she said respectfully, and opened the door wide. "We've been expecting you." She smiled politely and gestured. "If you'll follow me, please."
Inside, there was no evidence of a clinic, either.
The marble foyer was bare, with a grand staircase sweeping up to the next floor. A huge Brussels tapestry hung on one wall, and a large marble fragment of a Roman frieze, depicting an imperial woman holding the hand of a small child, was mounted against another.
"This way."
Heels clicking, the young woman led them to a concealed jib door, which opened into a small mahogany elevator. She waited for them to enter and followed them inside.
They rode up to the next floor, then walked down a spacious paneled corridor. The woman opened one of the many tall doors.
"If you'll be kind enough to wait in here, doctor will be right with you."
"Thank you."
Zandra and Karl-Heinz went inside and the door closed quietly behind them.
The hushed, lofty room looked as if it belonged in one of the great houses of Paris. The walls were boiserie, there was a fine Heriz palace carpet on the parquet, a huge crystal chandelier overhead, and a fire crackling in the marble fireplace. The furniture was genuine Louis XV, and a huge ormolu-mounted bureau plat was angled across one corner.
Zandra took a seat in one of two plumply upholstered bergeres in front of it.
Hands in his trouser pockets, Karl-Heinz walked around, studying the paintings on the walls. The Mary Cassatt depicted a mother and child, as did the Renoir, the Manet, the Daumier, and the Gainsborough.
"Mein Gott!" He whistled softly. "These are all genuine."
"His Serene Highness has a fine eye," commented a deep bass voice, and Karl-Heinz turned around.
Dr. Lawrence Rosenbaum was not Marcus Welby, M.D. He did not wear the traditional white doctor's smock. Nor did he look like your average family doctor. Dressed in a custom-tailored suit from Huntsman and Sons, a Turnbull and Asser shirt, Hermes tie, Cartier cufflinks, and Piaget watch, he could have been taken for a high-powered lawyer, a merchant banker, or a wealthy art collector.
He was six feet two inches tall with the thin, elongated face of an El Greco saint. Salt-and-pepper hair combed back from a slightly receding hairline, intelligent sable eyes, and a pointy Vandyke beard. In his mid- fifties, he was sleekly groomed and had a courtly, European air about him.
After they exchanged greetings, the doctor went behind his bureau plat and sat in his chair while Karl-Heinz took a seat in the empty bergere next to Zandra's.
"You seem to be doing quite well," Karl-Heinz observed, glancing around.
The doctor smiled. "I hope you don't expect any apologies."
"Of course not. Excellence deserves its rewards. From what I was told, you are the best in your field."
Dr. Rosenbaum permitted himself a modest little smile. "I have had some successes, yes. Babies are priceless, you know. As for the paintings—" He motioned around with a hand "—they are more than mere symbols of motherhood."
"Indeed ?"
The doctor nodded. "They were gifts, Your Highness. From grateful childless couples I have managed to help."
Karl-Heinz looked impressed. "Obviously, you have an important clientele. Not to mention a very wealthy one."
The doctor smiled faintly. "Discretion precludes me from mentioning names, but word gets around. One person talks to another, and that one to another. I do not advertise, Your Highness. My patients are all personal referrals. They come to me."
"As we have," Karl-Heinz said.
"Yes." The doctor held his gaze. "I take it you are here because you wish to have children."
It was Zandra who replied. "That's right," she said quietly, and leaned forward. "May I speak frankly, doctor?"
"By all means. Please do."
"I imagine that in your field you've probably heard just about everything. I mean, you must get all sorts of strange requests. Well, here's another. My husband needs an heir, doctor. Oh, not just any heir, I'm afraid. A male heir."
"Hmmm. I see." Dr. Rosenbaum steepled his fingers. "It is a matter of primogeniture?" he guessed.
"Exactly."
"Then we shall see what we can do," he said reassuringly.
He slid open a drawer and took out two folders and two gold pens.
"First, I shall require some in-depth personal and medical information."
He slid a folder and pen toward each of them.
"The forms inside," he said, "are self-explanatory. Fill them out as completely and honestly as possible. Also, do not write your names, address, or telephone numbers anywhere. We do not use personal identities here, only numbered codes. If you'll notice, yours are printed on the folders and also on each form they contain."
Karl-Heinz nodded approvingly. "I see that you were not exaggerating. You do run a most discreet operation."
"Unfortunately," Dr. Rosenbaum sighed, "it has become a necessity. Despite state-of-the-art security, doctors' offices are broken into all the time. With clients such as mine, I cannot risk having their confidentiality invaded."
"But surely, you must keep a master list somewhere," Karl-Heinz said. "How else can you keep track of people by numbers?"
The doctor smiled again. "It is all in here." He tapped his head. "I have a remarkable memory when it comes to numbers. Now, then. It should take you approximately half an hour to complete the forms. I shall have returned by then."
He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet.
"Sylvie will drop by to see whether or not you would like some refreshment. Also, if you should need anything, or have any questions, simply press this button to summon her. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another patient I must attend to."
As soon as he was gone, Zandra and Karl-Heinz got busy, and they were just finishing up when, exactly thirty minutes later, Dr. Rosenbaum returned with Sylvie, the blonde woman who had let them in downstairs.
"Sylvie, please show His Serene Highness to the library. I will see Her Serene Highness first."
Karl-Heinz squeezed Zandra's hand encouragingly, got to his feet, and followed Sylvie out.
Dr. Rosenbaum took a seat behind the bureau plat, opened Zandra's folder on the gilded and embossed leather surface, and took a pair of gold- rimmed half glasses out of a case. He looped the earpieces carefully over his ears.
"Now, let's see what we have here," he murmured, flipping through Zandra's file and scanning the information. "I notice you have only recently been married."
"Yes." Zandra twisted her engagement ring with its giant pink diamond nervously around and around her finger.
He looked up over his glasses at her. "Have you tried to conceive yet?"
"My husband and I have made love, yes," she said softly.
"I see." He picked up a pen and made a notation. "And have you ever conceived before? With anyone else?"
Zandra shook her head. "No."
"You put down that you've never undergone an abortion."
"That is correct."
He tilted his head. "But you have taken the Pill."
"Yes. Until two months ago. I stopped taking it when my husband and I were engaged."
"Hmmm." Dr. Rosenbaum glanced over the tops of his glasses again. "I see you have noted that your menstrual cycle is very regular. Every twenty-eight days?"
"Absolutely. It's so regular you could actually set your calendar by it."
He frowned and put down his pen and aligned it precisely with the folder. "I don't want you to get overexcited," he said, "but correct me if I'm wrong. According to what you've written down, I do believe your cycle is twelve days late."
"What?"
Zandra stared at him and frowned and began counting backward. Suddenly her eyes went huge.
"My goodness," she exclaimed softly, "you are right. Gosh. You don't really think—?"
He said, "Experience has taught me to think, but never to assume. As you probably know, the peak times for a woman to conceive are on the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth days following the onset of menstruation."
Zandra nodded impatiently. "Yes, yes. I know."
"Those, of course," he said, "are only the most likely days, and it doesn't
take into account that the human body is constantly full of surprises. Pregnancy has been known to occur anytime."
"But if you actually think there might be a possibility—"
"As I said, Your Highness," he repeated kindly, "I never assume. What I do suggest is that we give you a blood serum test. Who knows?" He smiled. "You may not need my services after all."
He pressed the buzzer on his desk. After a few moments, Sylvie came in.
"Yes, doctor?"
"Show Her Highness down to the laboratory, Sylvie, would you?"
He made a notation on a chart, then closed Zandra's folder and handed it to the young woman.
"Have Queen run a blood serum test."
"Yes, doctor."
Zandra rose to her feet and looked at Dr. Rosenbaum questioningly.
"We have our own laboratory on the premises," he explained. "It won't take long. After that, a gynecological examination may, or may not, be in order." He smiled reassuringly. "Now just relax. This is not the end of the world."
Oh, but it might be, Zandra thought. For Heinzie it could very well be.
Unconsciously she touched her belly.
A girl. Oh, God. If I'm carrying a girl, then what do we do?
She tried not to think about it.
Dr. Rosenbaum gestured for the uniformed black nurse with the elaborate Cleopatra cornrows and beads to help Zandra out of the stirrups of the examination table.
"Doctor?" Zandra said, clutching the pale blue examination gown which fell forward as she sat up.
"Later," Dr. Rosenbaum said absently. "Queen will help you get dressed, and Sylvie will bring you back upstairs."
He snapped off his gloves and tossed them in the red trash receptacle. And he was gone.
Zandra looked baffled. "Did I say something wrong?" she asked Queen, who was bringing her her clothes on a wooden hanger.
"Lord no, honey," Queen said warmly. "Doc's just thinkin's all. Here, what d'you say I help you get presentable?"
Fifteen minutes later, Zandra was shown back upstairs to the salonlike office. Sylvie withdrew and closed the door carefully.
Too Damn Rich Page 54