Too Damn Rich

by Gould, Judith

  "Do it."

  He nodded.

  Sofia took advantage of their silence to bring them even further around.

  "A girl, beloved though a daughter might be, would be as tragic for my brother as his wife's not giving birth at all. Gentlemen."

  Sofia sat up straighter, her own words and thoughts fortifying her like an impenetrable skin of Kevlar.

  "Pregnancies, as we all know, are unpredictable at best. Even if Princess Zandra is carrying a boy, she could miscarry. Or the child might be stillborn. Who knows what will happen?"

  The air seemed suddenly charged with ozone. The room had grown dark. Then it pulsated with lightning, and a crash of thunder followed.

  Erwein all but leapt to his feet in terror.

  Sofia waited until the noise subsided.

  "Whatever the case may be," she said softly, "we must not jump to conclusions. My brother inherits if and when his wife gives birth to a male heir, and only if this occurs before the death of my father."

  "I quite agree, Your Highness," old Herr Meindl concurred in a quaver.

  "Good. The inheritance must be procured justly and fairly, and must adhere strictly to the laws of primogeniture."

  Sofia paused.

  "To the very letter of the laws of primogeniture," she added emphatically.

  "You have my word," the old man said.

  Sofia nodded. "And do I also have the word of your sons?"

  August Meindl glanced to the left and right of him. Franz, Klaus, Gerhard, and Anton Meindl all nodded.

  "They are agreed, Your Highness. You may rest assured that everything about the birth will be aboveboard and legally binding. Three attorneys shall be present in the delivery room to witness it."

  "No, Herr Meindl." Sofia shook her head. "Not just three attorneys. Three of you."

  "If that is your wish," the old man said, inclining his head.

  "It is."

  Sofia looked at him with a pleased expression, much as she might have bestowed upon a shop clerk who had unlocked a cabinet to show her a bijoux she particularly fancied.

  "Now then," she said. "Since that is out of the way, I would like to take this opportunity to broach another matter."

  "Yes?" the old man asked cautiously.

  "I fully realize, Herr Meindl, that your firm represents the interests of this family as a whole. However, I also realize that since my father's illness, you presumed my brother was in charge."

  Old Herr Meindl started to say something, but she held up a hand.

  "Until Princess Zandra produces an appropriate heir before my father dies—which, unfortunately, could be any day now—I myself stand to inherit on behalf of my eldest son."

  August Meindl pursed his lips. "Hmm," he murmured noncommittally.

  "I have looked it up in the family book of primogeniture," Sofia told him. "Section sixteen pertains specifically to incapacitated heads of family and their childless heirs. It is quite specific. Erwein!"

  Erwein jumped up and hurried to fetch a thick, illuminated manuscript of great age. Puffs of dust rose from the priceless leather volume as he placed it on the table in front of August Meindl. The thunderstorm outside raged like an amplified omen.

  Herr Meindl got out his reading glasses and managed, despite his palsy, to place them on his beaky nose. Then, carefully, shakily, reverently, he turned the thick pages to where a silk ribbon marked section sixteen.

  He read the giant Gothic script slowly, running his bony finger along each line and whispering the words to himself.

  Sofia fidgeted impatiently, wishing he would hurry up.

  After what seemed an eternity, the old man carefully closed the precious book, put away his glasses, and cleared his throat. "You are quite correct, Your Highness. Section sixteen does indeed spell it out. And quite explicitly."

  "Exactly!" trumpeted Sofia smugly. "Therefore, since my father is in a coma, my eldest son is, for the time being, the crown prince of this empire. As such, I fully expect you to extend him—and myself— every courtesy."

  She glanced around the table.

  "Naturally, should my father miraculously improve, or should my brother's wife produce a male heir in time, your allegiance shall automatically switch back to him."

  She stared long and hard at old Herr Meindl.

  "Well, gentlemen?"

  The younger Meindls glanced at their elder for guidance.

  "We must do as it is written, Your Highness," the old man said expressionlessly. "You are, for now, the family's regent."

  "Good. And as such, I am giving you your first order. By midsummer, Princess Zandra should be in the fifth month of pregnancy. At that point, I want your three most trusted sons to keep her under close observation."

  He coughed discreetly. "You mean ... surveillance?"

  "A matter of semantics, but yes. Surveillance. They may hire detectives, but are to follow her personally wherever she may travel. Cost is no object, and they will report directly to me. I want to know everything— whether they think it significant or not."

  "We are, as always, at your service, Your Highness."

  Sofia positively purred. "That will be all for now, Herr Meindl. Thank you, gentlemen, and auf Wiedersehett."

  Thus dismissed, Herr Meindl and his four sons rose, bowed formally, and left.

  Once they were gone, Sofia remained seated, too deep in thought to notice Erwein tiptoe out.

  TARGET:

  BURGHLEY'S

  COUNTDOWN

  TO TERROR

  Somerset, New Jersey, May 11

  There were no dogs.

  Had there been, they might have made things more difficult. Not impossible, of course. Nothing was impossible. Donough Kildare would simply have dealt with dogs as he dealt with everything else—quietly, ruthlessly, and lethally.

  The night was chill, the fleeting clouds his accomplice. Dressed in tight, form-fitting black, rubber-soled shoes, snug leather gloves and night- vision goggles, he was one with the darkness. Everything he needed was in the four padded pouches strapped around his waist.

  On he crept, toward the isolated compound and his destination, the Greek Revival mansion.

  It's such a beautiful house, he thought. What a pity it must be destroyed.

  Tonight would be his sixth and last invasion of the mansion. He had been inside on five previous occasions without being detected, and was familiar enough with the security devices that he could have bypassed them in his sleep.

  Unless they've changed the alarms, he thought, it's a piece of cake.

  He took a moment to search his plan for flaws. There were none. He had left nothing to chance. For two months now, he'd rented a nearby farmhouse, and not a day had gone by that he had not reconnoitered the compound from a distance.

  He knew everything there was to know.

  Because of the horses and wild animals setting them off, no alarms existed on the property itself. Stupidity!

  The porch was protected by infrared beams, but the doors and windows by an antiquated, easily bypassed alarm system. Child's play.

  And as for the Secret Service agents, lack of action had lulled them into a false sense of security. Tonight, you'll pay for it with your lives.

  On he crawled, until he reached the house. There he lay stock-still, looking and listening.

  All was quiet in the pastures. All was quiet in the house. The only sounds were the occasional neighs from the horses in the stables and his own steady breathing.

  It's time to get a move on, Donough Kildare told himself. Time to create my "natural disaster" while the target's here.

  From his vantage in the woods, he had watched her arrive yesterday, his ten-by-fifty binoculars making it seem like she was right in front of him. There was no mistaking her.

  Blimey! he'd thought. In person she looks exactly like her effing photographs!

  Not that it made any difference who she was. A job was a job, and the pay was excellent.

  Now he switched his night-vi
sion goggles for a pair of infrareds.

  Instead of murky green, everything suddenly took on a red hue. Beams of light, invisible to the naked eye, crisscrossed the porch.

  He was not deterred. The drainpipes, which he'd climbed on his previous visits, had been completely overlooked. Bad breach of security, that. Almost an insult. You're making it too easy!

  Checking his watch, he ascertained that he had twenty-three minutes before one of the Secret Service agents made his next round.

  Now to bypass the alarm wires.

  He stowed the goggles in a pouch, sprinted around to the back of the house, and crawled underneath a spreading yew. Switching on his pen- light, he played it over the wires.

  They were exactly as he'd left them—temporarily connected.

  Holding the penlight between his teeth, he set to work. Produced a six-inch length of wire with alligator clamps on either end. Unwrapped the electrical tape he'd placed around two of the wires the first time he'd stripped them, and clipped one clamp to each. Snipped the alarm wire with a small pair of wire cutters.

  He crawled out from under the shrub and took some long, deep breaths. Then, grabbing hold of the nearest drainpipe, he shimmied up it without a sound.

  When he reached the roof, he did a slow pull-up, swung one leg up over the edge, then hoisted himself, and stood up. Through force of habit, he took the time for a quick scan of the grounds.

  Nothing doing. Good.

  Next, he checked the dormer window he had left unlocked, but had wedged shut, on his last visit.

  He removed the wedge.

  The window was still unlocked, and opened as if in welcome.

  He climbed inside, careful to distribute his weight evenly on the old floorboards. Then, using his penlight, he wove his way around mountains of discarded furniture, boxes, and trunks. The air was acrid with dust; cobwebs stuck to his face.

  A minute later, he reached the door.

  Opening it a crack, he peered out.

  The coast was clear, the stairway thoughtfully lit.

  He switched off the penlight, put on his goggles, and checked for newly installed infrared alarm beams.

  There were none.

  Walking in a crouch, and avoiding the steps he knew to be creaky, he crept down the narrow stairs to the second-floor landing. There, he flattened himself against the wall, edged along it, and peered around the corner.

  He was at the grand staircase which curved down to the oval foyer. Silent as a ghost, he moved toward it, looking up, down, and out past the railing. Eyes everywhere, ears attuned.

  It's like the night before bleedin' Christmas, he thought. Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse ...

  Swiftly and quietly, he descended the stairs, listened at the door to the service hallway, then opened it and slipped inside. Second door to the left led down to the basement.

  This was the door with hinges badly in need of oiling.

  No problem. Two squirts of WD-40 and it opened without a whisper. He stepped inside and closed it behind him.

  Now he was atop the basement stairs. Switching on the penlight, he shone it down the steep concrete steps and started down.

  The basement smelled of moist stone and rotting wood. Old spiderwebs, like dirty angel hair, spanned the bare beams overhead, trapping the dried carapaces of long-dead flies. He could hear a sump pump kick in, the furnace going fa-lump!, the steady plops of water from a leaky pipe.

  He headed straight for the furnace, shut it off, and extinguished the pilot light. Then he turned it on full blast.

  He smiled to himself as he heard the snakelike hiss of escaping gas. Lovely.

  Now for the two boilers.

  He turned them both off, blew out their pilot lights, and switched them back on also.

  Time for the main event: the gas line feeding into the house.

  When he reached it, he clipped the penlight to his jacket, took a gas mask out of a pouch, and slipped it over his head. Next, he took a small,carefully sealed, heavy glass bottle from its snug, foam-padded nest in one of the pouches.

  Inside was acid: corrosive, nonflammable, quick-acting.

  He broke the seal cautiously. Don't want to get this stuff on me, he thought. With utmost care he began to dribble it on the gas line.

  The metal pipe instantly began to blister and disintegrate. Within a minute, it was thoroughly eaten through.

  Gas, silent and deadly, started pouring into the basement.

  Carefully he stoppered the empty bottle, placed it back in its pouch, undipped the penlight, and went back upstairs.

  He left all the doors open so the gas could fill the house. Sprinted up the grand staircase. Headed down a second-floor corridor to the east wing, where the master bedroom was located.

  Every bomb needs a fuse . . .

  He switched off the corridor lights. Popped the penlight in his mouth and unscrewed the switchplate. Carefully uncapped the wires and joined them together, making sure they touched metal.

  One spark is all it takes . . .

  He screwed the switchplate back on and grinned to himself. I'm glad I won't be around when that light's turned on, he thought sardonically.

  He was on the roof, wedging the dormer window shut when he spied a Secret Service agent coming out of the guest house, flashlight in hand. Much good a check of the grounds will do, he thought.

  Fifteen minutes later, the agent was back inside. Now!

  Donough Kildare scuttled down the drainpipe. Crawled under the yew to reconnect the alarm system. Then disappeared across the meadow, a lithe, barely visible shadow.

  He stopped a hundred yards from the house and dropped to the ground, taking up position under a paddock fence. Got out that most ancient of all weapons—a slingshot and a stone.

  After the Big Bang, investigators could sift through the rubble all they liked. They'd never find the telltale residue of matches, timers, fuses, explosives, or bullets. All he'd have to do was launch a single stone at a window.

  The lady will do the rest.

  He settled down, deciding to give it two-and-a-half hours. By then the house would be a bomb waiting to go off.

  Ingenious.

  Becky V was jolted awake by the deafening, shattering bedlam of the alarms. What the devil—

  She sat up in bed and looked around wildly.

  The outdoor floods had automatically clicked on, bathing the perimeter of the house, and she could see the stark, glaring white light through chinks in the drawn curtains.

  Tilting her head, she listened for the shouts of her Secret Service detail, but it was impossible. Everything was drowned out by the ear- splitting din.

  Why don't they shut the infernal thing off? she wondered.

  Then she relaxed.

  It's probably just a false alarm. It certainly wouldn't be the first time.

  She decided to go and switch it off herself.

  Turning on her bedside lamp, she got up, shrugged herself into a blue silk nightgown, and tied the sash as she crossed the room. Opening her door carefully, she peered out.

  The corridor was dark; the dimmed sconces were off. That's strange. They're always left on. Suddenly she felt sick to her stomach. What's that stench? she wondered. It smells like gas.

  Hurrying now, and trying not to breathe, she stumbled down the corridor to the light switch.

  The fumes were overwhelming. Good Lord! It is gas! I'd better turn on the lights so I can see where I'm going. She reached for the switch and flipped it.

  There was a blinding flash and a tremendous roar, and the entire mansion exploded in a fireball.

  At seven-thirty that evening, Donough Kildare was at a Toms River, New Jersey, marina. Another job well done, he thought. This one was certainly my crowning achievement. Maybe it's a good time to retire ...

  As prearranged, he boarded a forty-one-foot Hatteras double-cabin motor yacht, slid open the door, and stepped down into the compact salon.

  "Close the door," the man seated in the c
lub chair said softly.

  Kildare slid it shut and froze as he heard the familiar click of a gun hammer. Slowly, he turned around.

  He was looking at the silencer of a .44-caliber Magnum revolver. "What the bleedin' fuck? I only came to collect my—"

  "Did you ever hear my Arnold Schwarzenegger routine?" the man with the gun asked softly.

  Kildare stared at him. "Huh—?"

  The man said, "Hasta la vista, baby," and pulled the trigger.

  Donough Kildare's head burst like a ripe watermelon.

  The man blew on the smoking barrel and smiled. Now all we have to do is wait, he thought. When Becky's things come on the auction block, we'll have the world's richest collectors and celebrities under one roof.

  Sitting ducks, the lot of them. Just waiting to be plucked . . .

  He could hardly wait.

  Book Five

  THE

  AUCTION

  TO END

  ALL

  Becky V Death Ruled a Tragic Accident.

  Legend's Collections to Go on the Block

  SOMERSET, N.J., June 26 (AP)—A gas leak coupled with faulty wiring was the probable cause of the explosion which killed six people here, including former First Lady Rebecca Cornille Wakefield Lantzouni de la Vila, federal investigators and local fire officials said today.

  But investigators admitted they were baffled by how a gas leak could account for an explosion of such magnitude, according to Dwight Kramer, a federal official.

  When the fire department arrived on the scene, all that was left of the mansion was a giant smoldering crater.

  "It looked like a bomb had been dropped," said Chief Fred Czubik of the local fire department.

  The victims, which in addition to the Duchess de la Vila included three servants and two Secret Service agents, occurred about 4:15 A.M. on Saturday, May 11. All were identified through dental remains.

  Lord Rosenkrantz, the investment banker, who had been staying in the nearby guest house, escaped with minor injuries and was treated and released from the local hospital.