Empress Bianca

by Lady Colin Campbell

  ‘I’d like Tel Aviv,’ he said. ‘How precious of you to think of this, Bianca.’

  ‘You know me. Always trying to make the world a better place for my loved ones,’ she trilled with absolute conviction.

  Philippe did his best to smile: something his wife hated when he tried. Invariably, spittle always drooled from the corner of his mouth. This, however, was not the moment to give way to revulsion, so she reached for a tissue and wiped the fluid away gently, calculatedly radiating a beatific glow of adoration as she did so while thinking what a relief it would be to be finally free of him forever.

  ‘Darling, one thing concerns me,’ Bianca said quietly when she had finished her wifely ministrations. ‘You know what Hepsibah and Rebecca are like. They’re always accusing me of attention seeking. I think it’s so unfair, especially as Rebecca took against me through no fault of my own when she accompanied us on my honeymoon with Ion,’ she continued, shrewdly alluding, in a way that only Philippe would pick up, to the fact that it was thanks to him and his idea to get rid of Ferdie, that she had been forced to go through the farce of marrying a homosexual. ‘Well, I don’t want any more trouble from her or from Hepsibah. And, while you love them and are quite right as a loyal brother to defend them against criticism from any source, you must admit they will stop at nothing to embarrass me. Well, I don’t want to be put in that position when I no longer have you here to defend me. They’ll be sure to say that you didn’t approve of the idea of the College of Jewish Studies…and that I’m just promoting myself…unless it’s in your will.’

  ‘I’ll change it, Philippe said, recognizing the validity of Bianca’s point. ‘Arrange it for me with Gisele.’

  ‘I don’t think it warrants having Juan fly all the way from Mexico just to add a codicil, do you? Why don’t I simply get the lawyer down the street to prepare something, then he can pop in one day and have you sign it. That way, we’ll get this sorted out with a minimum of fuss. I can see it now: the Philippe Mahfud College of Jewish Studies. What a worthy memorial to my great, great husband.’

  Philippe laughed as best he could, although his attempt sounded more like a grunt. As Bianca stilled the shiver of distaste that passed down her spine, he reached for her hand, wrapping his emaciated fingers around it.

  With the rigidity that is a characteristic of late MS, he brought it towards his lips and kissed it. Touched despite herself, Bianca now had to suppress the feeling of tenderness welling up within her and smiled sweetly, thinking how conflicting it was to kill someone who loved you and whom you once had loved.

  ‘You know, darling, I’ve been thinking that I’m not spending as much time with you as I’d like. Would you like me to move here from L’Alexandrine?’ she asked sweetly, knowing only too well that Philippe would like nothing better.

  ‘Would you?’ he said, his eyes great saucers of love, reminding her in the tenderness of their expression and their complete roundness of nothing more than the eyes of the cows at Sintra, although bovines were a breed of animal Bianca had never been able to stand. Whenever she was in residence at Sintra, she always made the farm manager move them from the fields far from the house, complaining that ‘they’re stupid and attract flies’.

  ‘That’s decided, then. I’ll move in tomorrow,’ she said.

  Suddenly Philippe looked startled. ‘Dr Wiseman hasn’t said something to you that you’re keeping from me?’

  ‘Of course not, darling, it’s just that I miss being with you when I’m rattling around L’Alexandrine all on my own.’

  Philippe sighed with relief. ‘You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.’

  ‘And that makes me happier than I can say,’ said Bianca, pecking him lightly on the lips.

  As soon as Philippe was asleep she telephoned Maître Jean Aras, the lawyer whose offices were nearest to the apartment, to make an appointment to see him about redrafting her husband’s will.

  Needless to say, Maître Aras knew who Madame Philippe Mahfud of Banco Imperiale was. That was the good thing about living in a place where everyone had reverence for wealth. The greater the reputation for wealth: the greater the reverence. In Andorra, the names Mahfud and Banco Imperiale were right up there in the pantheon of the gods of Mammon, especially to someone as unreservedly bourgeois as Maître Aras.

  Half the battle Bianca intended to wage with Maître Aras had therefore been won before she even made an appointment for the following day; and when she duly showed up, an unnerving and deliberate forty minutes late, Maître Aras was already worried lest a fish as big as Madame Mahfud might have escaped from his line before he had even reeled it in.

  Bianca, however, placated him by explaining how she had been detained by a telephone call from ‘the palace’ - she did not specify which one, and Maître Aras, too discreet to ask, did not enquire. In fact, there had been no telephone call from any palace at all; Bianca had simply employed this ruse to impress him into being more malleable than he might otherwise be.

  Having captivated Maître Aras, Bianca then informed him poignantly and with dignity that her husband was dying, that he wanted to change his will and that he had sent her to organize things on his behalf. She stated that Philippe wanted it done within five working days, before his health declined further. She said that he was prepared to pay the unheard of fee of $60,000 if Maître Aras prepared to his satisfaction the will that Philippe Mahfud, had dictated to her and she had written down in her own hand. ‘I don’t expect you to take my word for this,’ she ended by saying. ‘Please telephone my husband and check that I am here at his request.’

  ‘It had not occurred to me that Madame would be anything but genuine,’ Maître Aras said with Gallic courtesy.

  ‘Still, I insist that you check. After all, we don’t want you having any doubts, now do we? And since I have nothing to hide, I’d prefer that you do your own independent checks. I must warn you, though, that my husband can barely speak. Doubtless you know he has Multiple Sclerosis. Fortunately, it’s not affected his mind, which remains as clear as a bell, thank God. I only tell you this so that when you speak to him you keep your questions short and simple.’

  Maître Aras looked both embarrassed and grateful that this new client was insisting upon such an unorthodox but blameless course of action.

  What he wanted more than anything else was for her bizarre request to pan out so that he could collect the easiest $60,000 he had ever earned in his life. He therefore did as she asked, telephoning the bank and asking to be put through to the Mahfud apartment. He was then put in touch with Erhud Blum, head of security, who proceeded to put him through to Monsieur Mahfud.

  Having satisfied himself of something about which it would never have occurred to him to ask, Maître Aras turned to Bianca and said: ‘Your husband confirms, as I knew he would, that you are here at his request. What are my instructions?’

  ‘He dictated this will to me yesterday. It might look awfully short to you, but I can confirm it’s no shorter than his last one. If anything, it might even be longer.’ Bianca opened her handbag, took out two sheets of A4 writing paper that she had completed the afternoon before on a short visit to L’Alexandrine and handed them to Maître Aras.

  Maître Aras studied the sheets. He read the instructions that Philippe wished to leave all his worldly goods to his beloved wife, Bianca, save for $20,000,000 in cash that he was bequeathing to his devoted sisters Hepsibah and Rebecca and the sum of $1,000,000 to endow a chair of Jewish Studies at Tel Aviv University.

  The endowment of a chair was, of course, entirely different from, and less costly than, the endowment of a college, but Bianca was confident that her husband would never learn of the switch.

  More than ready to be hanged for a sheep as a goat, she also cut out Raymond financially. ‘To my beloved brother,’ the instructions now read, ‘whose support and companionship have meant the world to me throughout my life, I leave all of my love, in the knowledge that he does not need anything else, having made himself, th
rough his talents and initiative, one of Central America’s richest men.’

  ‘This seems fairly straightforward to me,’ remarked Maître Aras, stating the obvious.

  ‘It is,’ Bianca agreed. ‘Can you have the will drawn up and ready for signature by, say, midday next Wednesday?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ Maître Aras said, his eyes sparkling at the prospect of having the fabulously wealthy Mahfuds as his clients.

  Recognizing the glint of greed in his eyes, Bianca was very pleased as she rose from her chair and extended her hand graciously, bringing the meeting to an end. ‘It’s been a pleasure seeing you, Maître Aras. Shall I send our car and driver for you on Wednesday?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said, impressed with the graciousness of his new client.

  ‘It will be our honour,’ she replied disarmingly and flashed him one of her bewitching smiles.

  So far, so good.

  Bianca returned to the apartment, mindful of the need to look for any signs that Philippe might be emerging from the fog that had befallen him since Dr Wiseman had changed his medicine. Careful and painstaking, leaving nothing to chance, she never left the apartment for the next few days, although her every impulse rebelled against the constraints of living in this mausoleum. During this time, she studied Philippe the way a biologist studies an insect; the one thing she could not afford was for him to have enhanced powers of concentration at the wrong time. By the Tuesday evening, she was satisfied that his mental powers were still sufficiently intact for him to follow simple explanations, but anything else, she determined, was beyond his abilities.

  The following day, Wednesday, May 19 1999, was an eventful one in the Mahfud apartment. Eli’s replacement, Frank Alderman, was due to arrive at ten o’clock, two hours before Maître Aras, whose appointment Bianca had made to coincide with the time that Philippe awoke from his morning rest. However, Frank Alderman’s flight was late, with the result that he arrived at the same time as Maître Aras.

  Both men were greeted, as they stepped out of the elevator into the entrance hall of the apartment, by Erhud Blum. ‘I’ll escort you into Monsieur and Madame in a moment,’ he said to Maître Aras, then, turning to Frank Alderman, he extended his hand. ‘Welcome to Andorra,’ he said ‘Alvaro will be down in a minute and will give you a quick rundown then I’ll put you through your paces. It’s a lot easier than you might think.’

  Maître Aras observed with interest how Frank just stood there, his mouth open and his eyes taking in as much as they could of this new environment.

  ‘We don’t want to keep Monsieur and Madame waiting,’ Erhud said, turning to Maître Aras and, leaving Frank standing beside his plastic travel case on wheels, headed upstairs with the lawyer following him.

  By the time they reached the master bedroom, Maître Aras was dazed by the splendid furnishings he passed on the way there. Never, in the whole of his life, had he seen anything so impressive.

  Erhud knocked then, without waiting for an answer, walked straight in. In a scene that conveyed wifely devotion, Bianca was sitting demurely on the bed holding the hand of her husband, who was propped up in bed surrounded by large, Continental-style pillows. Even though Maître Aras did not know that the linen was Porthault, he could tell at a glance that each pillowcase must have cost a fortune.

  ‘Ah, Maître Aras,’ Bianca said, jumping up to greet him. ‘How kind of you to come. I trust everything’s in order?’

  ‘Yes, Madame, it’s all been so easy and straightforward…’ he started to say.

  Worried lest he should say too much, and thereby give the game away, she cut him off. ‘You are too gracious,’ she said, ‘which is always what one wants in a lawyer, isn’t it, Philippe? Graciousness makes life so much more pleasant than the hurly-burly prevalent in certain quarters nowadays.’

  Then, in one of her changes of mood that always wrong-footed her opponents, she said: ‘May I see the will? Now that my poor husband can’t read, I have to be his eyes.’

  Maître Aras opened his briefcase and removed the document, handing it to Bianca. She took it and, spinning around to face Philippe, said:

  ‘Darling, let me present Maître Aras to you. He’s the nice lawyer from down the street who you wanted to redo your will to include your bequest for Jewish Studies.’

  ‘Ah, Maître, a pleasure,’ Philippe slurred, extending a shaking hand in greeting to the lawyer.

  ‘Monsieur Mahfud, it’s an honour to serve you.’

  ‘Good, good. Have a seat,’ he said, indicating the sofa beside the bed where Agatha usually sat, ‘while my wife reads the will to see that everything’s in order.’

  Monsieur Aras perched on the edge of the sofa, his posture betraying his anxiety to please.

  Meanwhile, Bianca was standing on the other side of the bed, reading the will. ‘Everything’s as you wanted, darling,’ she said when she had finished, addressing Philippe in French so that Maître Aras could understand. ‘You can sign it.’

  Bianca then handed Philippe the will. Maître Aras stood up, while Philippe laboriously scribbled something approximating a signature. That done, Maître Aras had Erhud Blum and Alvaro sign it as witnesses.

  Philippe’s time had just run out for him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  How do you kill someone who lives in an environment that is monitored by security guards and surveillance devices that pick up your every move? Bianca had turned the problem over and over in her mind before coming up with the solution. It was, in its own way, a brilliant plan, based as it was upon the principle that Philippe must be guided inadvertently into killing himself. All she needed was an unwitting stooge - someone who could help her to pull the trigger, so to speak, without even realizing that he was wielding was the gun - and Mary van Gayrib seemed to have provided her with one in the form of Frank Alderman.

  During his first full day at work, Frank showed his potential by falling victim, like so many before him, to her legendary charm.

  He was gently helping Philippe into a more comfortable position on the bed when she swung into action. ‘Darling,’ she said to her husband, making up a total lie so that she could use Frank’s adopted children to establish common ground with him, ‘when you’re more comfortable, I want to have a word with you about Manolito. He telephoned last night, and things don’t seem too happy on the home front. That’s my youngest son,’ she said, looking directly at Frank. ‘He’s a real sweetheart. He’s the only one of my four children who’s adopted, but I love him as much as all of them and, to be frank, even more than my youngest natural son.’

  ‘My children are also adopted,’ said Frank, struck, as Bianca intended him to be by the coincidence.

  Only the parents of an adopted child could know the strength such a bond creates with other adoptive parents, and Bianca played it for all it was worth. ‘I can tell, Frank, that we’re going to get along just fine,’ she said.

  ‘I hope so, Madame.’

  ‘I hope so too.’

  ‘Maybe at the end of my contract, you’ll get to meet my family, Madame.’

  ‘I’d love to. I hope you’re not going to miss them too much.’

  ‘I will, but I don’t have a choice. We’ve got a mountain of debts, and the only way we’re ever going to clear them is for me to work here.’

  ‘So you’re here without your family so that you can keep them together. I admire that. Will you please fetch my handbag from my bedroom?’ she asked Agatha sweetly before turning back to Frank again. ‘I respect initiative,’ she said. ‘It should always be rewarded. And anyone who’s doing what you’re doing has initiative’

  While Bianca beamed approvingly, Frank finished making the patient comfortable and gave him a sip of water. Philippe, by now so helpless and vulnerable that he was reminiscent of an overgrown and wizened little boy, was murmuring his appreciation when Agatha came back into the bedroom with the handbag. She handed it to Bianca, who opened it with a smile, removed her wallet and counted ten
hundred-dollar bills, which she then handed to the new helper with the words: ‘Here, Frank, send this back to your family by Fed Ex. They’ll be sure to need something to tide them over until you’re paid next week.’

  ‘Madame,’ Frank said, holding the bills in his hand with a nonplussed look on his face, ‘I don’t know what to say. You’re like a guardian angel. If I could, I’d kiss you.’

  Bianca laughed good-naturedly. ‘Well, we don’t want you going too far with your appreciation. A simple “thank-you” is more than enough.’

  ‘Madame is famous for doing things like that,’ Agatha said, by way of assurance. ‘Only the other day, she gave me a handsome graduation present for my daughter.’

  No one had ever been so generous to him in his life before; and Frank, clearly in shock, continued standing fixed to the spot with the bills in his hand.

  ‘Now, now,’ Bianca said in a mock-severe tone. ‘You two don’t want to make me too bigheaded with all this praise, do you? Go on, Frank. Tuck the money in your pocket. You can’t stand there all day holding it in your hand. Not when you have to take such good care of Monsieur that you’ll make a financial killing and return to your family with pockets rustling with hundred-dollar bills.’

  Having seduced her unwitting accomplice with a show of generosity, Bianca moved in for the kill the following day. Philippe’s erstwhile client Boris Budokovsky, together with his wife and child, had been gunned down in Moscow the day before, so she said to her husband, while Agatha was feeding him a lunch of strained vegetables, mashed potatoes and minced venison: ‘I had a most perturbing dream last night. I dreamed that those Russians you used to do business with were chasing me down a blind alleyway. There were three of them. They had machine guns and, while I was running, they were spraying the ground with bullets. Do you suppose it’s a premonition, or do you think my unconscious is just worried because of all the press reports about the Russian Mafia liquidating Boris Budokovsky and his wife and child?’