by Warren Adler
"Yes. I would be happy to have that," she said, kissing his cheek.
"Then you'll stay. Defect. We can arrange asylum." He raised himself on an elbow, but her eyes betrayed the doubt.
"And Aleksandr?"
"He is yours. I would love him as well."
"I mean his future."
He knew what she meant. And Albert, he asked himself, sinking on her breast, holding her. What of Albert?
"Man does not live by blood alone," he said. he had wanted the humor to console him, but it fell flat.
"There is every reason to stay. Especially now." It was an appeal to ambition. He felt ashamed.
The light quickened and she moved suddenly, disengaging.
"He will be up soon," she said. Watching her smooth back move toward the bedroom, he lay for a while on the couch watching the cloudless sky.
"It will be a beautiful day for a picnic," he told himself, getting up and gathering his clothes. He stared at the closed bedroom door as he dressed. He could not imagine how he had lived with the void for so long.
He closed the door quietly, being sure to hear the lock snap.
CHAPTER 20
Charles looked with pleasure at the lineup of shiny black cars glistening in the sun. Beside them the assembled family were awaiting his arrival, grouped, in muted colors, posing it seemed for a sentimental photograph meant for family viewing fifty years from then. Despite the expenditure of energy taxing his frail heart, he could not deny himself the pleasure of this picnic. Knowing it would be his last did not dim his enthusiasm for it.
The outdoor feast, like some ancient pagan ritual, had become an obligatory family necessity, completing some inborn collective need. He had often wished that he could convey to his children the picnic as it had been during his own childhood. Then, the shiny cars had been glistening black horses, pulling open coaches, and the caravan would move at a moderate pace through the wagon-rutted roads of the old land. As they passed through tiny villages, children would wave while their parents would lift curious eyes, watching their rulers pass in regal procession.
The caravan would move to high ground, a flat clearing, a shelf that seemed cut by design into the highest hill of their land. Disembarking, the family would cluster in groups while the servants set up wooden tables and over white linen lined up platter after platter of every concoction the cook's imagination could contrive. From where they were, they imagined they could see every corner of their land. To the human eye that was impossible, but to the mind's infinite vision it was clearly seen. He could see it now, the vastness of it, the pulse-quickening beauty of its sweeping grandeur. Even now, he could hold to the irrevocable promise of its return to some von Kassel of the distant future. Above all, he knew that he would soon be returning to it.
"What a beautiful day," Karla's voice said, as they moved out of the entrance into the sunlight.
"It is always a beautiful day." Since they shared the same memory, it meant all the times that had gone before.
It was not only the memory of the earlier time that stirred his sense of well-being. That, and the knowledge that a choice had been made. The uncertainty was over.
Rudi had come to him earlier. The furtive knock had not really intruded on his sleep. There was rarely contented sleep now, as he wrestled with his agony in those frequent moments between wakefulness and oblivion. Ever alert, Karla had answered the knock.
"It is Rudi," she said, drawing the blinds. He saw a different vision of his second son. The recent pride seemed drained.
"I must talk to you, Father," Rudi said hoarsely. The son's bloated face hinted broadly at what was to come. He had nodded, he remembered, and Rudi had averted his eyes, talking instead to the now revealed early light. The sun had just cleared the upper ridges.
"I have talked privately to Albert," he stammered. "I think..." He paused. "I know I have overreached myself. He is far more skillful than I. Also in the matter of the plutonium sale, I think, I know, he can handle it better...."
"He has agreed?" Charles asked, confirming his own inclination.
"Yes, Father," Rudi replied. "Completely."
"Then you have no doubts."
"None."
Charles reached out his hand and Rudi grasped it. It felt soft, clammy, and in its touch Charles felt a confirmation of his earlier doubts. Albert will prevail. One could never be really sure. But the burden lifted and he knew now he could prepare his mind for death.
Karla had listened, but she had said nothing. He did not like the enigma of her silence, but the fact that she would outlive him quelled his anxiety. She will look after them, he thought.
The family faces had turned up to watch him as he moved out toward the first car, expectant faces, as his was when his grandfather moved out of the old house and led the family on this sacred day. He lifted his eyes and searched for Albert, who stood alone near one of the cars. He looked lonely, isolated. It was a condition he could understand. The penalty of commanding destiny.
All life was upheaval, he mused, continuing to watch Albert's face. Revolutions came. Armies expired. Borders changed. Blood flowed. Religions, governments, dynasties, families rose and fell, their histories disappearing in the flow of time. But von Kassels endured. Again, natural forces had decided who would lead von Kassels into new lands, new paths to survival. Not every bud was worth the growth, his grandfather had told him, crushing one of lesser quality to illustrate the point. Rudi had tried and failed, but to pit him against Albert had seemed a necessity. Life was combat.
The caravan of cars moved out of the castle gate, working its way upward over the narrow mountain road. He had done all that could be done, he sighed.
"It is all right now," he said to Karla.
She nodded, providing the inevitable reassurance. She, too, had carried the flame, had passed through the incredible hardships of their generation. He reached out and put a hand over hers.
"I am content now," he said. She said nothing in reply, her eyes focused on the road ahead.
The cars picked their way through the narrow road, winding in a wide curving arc up the mountain in the clear glistening sunlit air. The road cut through the timberline, then outward to the rim of the mountain again. In the distance, he could see the slate gray outline of a lonely mountain lake. The cars moved cautiously on the rim's outer edge. This was the narrowest portion. There were no roadguards and the side of the road was a sheer drop into the valley below. Then the cars turned inward again, moving less cautiously onto a grassy plateau which formed a flat ledge with a commanding view of the valley. In its center was a rock configuration that had easily been imagined into a table. The cars were parked beside each other and the family disembarked, while the servants, under the fussy eye of the hotel manager, busied themselves moving chairs, removing plates, silver and food from an open truck that had been the last vehicle in the caravan.
Garth placed two chairs together on the highest point, a grassy knoll which overlooked the site. When the Baron and his sister were seated, he placed fur blankets over their legs.
From here, Charles could observe the family moving about on the plateau, viewing the vastness of the mountain forest. From this vantage, they could see the turrets of the castle and the banner of the Old Order, a toy flag whipping in the breeze.
This, he knew, would be the last opportunity to view his family as an entity. Soon he would embark on the journey back to Estonia. Arrangements had already been made with the Soviet authorities. For a price, they would gladly take back the dead. The dead were unimportant to them, which was why they were doomed to failure. In that was the ultimate insight of the von Kassels. The dead were equally as important as the living.
He viewed them now, his sons, fruit of his loins, mixed with the blood of kings. The genes melded oddly. His father was weak but he, Charles, was strong. Someone would always be reproduced to pass the family blood through the generations, he told himself, perhaps with some bravado. At least, he knew he had found the courage
to do what had to be done.
The servants were setting the rock table. The chef himself, a large rotund man wearing the high hat of his calling, sharpened his knives before the great round of steaming beef.
In the clear air sound tinkled, but the words' meaning lost itself in the vastness. Occasionally faces turned toward him and he observed them casually. Rudi. Albert. Siegfried. He noted the absence of Rudi's wife and Albert's woman friend, but he viewed his brother's wife and her son with satisfaction. The heart of the family remained. You see, he told himself, in the end they return. Even the rebel Wolfgang could not revolt against the blood.
Reunions usually provided some little family drama, he thought, remembering. But it was in conflict that the family renewed itself. Like now. He had brought it all forward one tiny miniscule dot of time. The family was still the family. He was content.
He watched as Siegfried detached himself from the others, moving toward them. Karla, in a sudden gesture, removed the blanket from her lap and stood up.
"What is it sister?" he asked, confused by the swiftness of her action. She did not respond, her back obscuring the approaching figure of his eldest son. But he had already seen his face and the message of its anger speared into his failing heart, awakening the pain.
CHAPTER 21
Mornings after always brought contrition and Siegfried waited for the expected response. In fact, he longed for it, and was frightened that it had not arrived by now. Thankfully, Heather had ignored him as she busied herself with the ritual of her morning ablutions, always quick and to the point. The real grooming was reserved for her horses.
When she had gone into the bathroom, he pushed himself from the pit of his bed and poured himself a half glass of whiskey with a shaking hand, slopping some liquid on his chin as he forced it down, feeling the burning sensation in his queasy gut, enduring the discomfort, certain of the impending medicinal effect.
Standing by the window, he waited for it to arrive, squinting into the light. When his eyes focused, he saw the line of shiny cars below.
But the desired effects did not come soon enough, and he had to reach for the bottle and repeat the dose.
"Damned fool," Heather said, emerging from the bathroom in her robe, drying her hair. He ignored her, turning again to the window, unlatching it, letting the cool mountain air fill his lungs, steadying him. But contrition would not come.
"You had better get dressed," Heather said, but the words did not make him stir. Even a sojourn in the void of his drunkenness had not been able to kill the beast of his anger. He felt it claw at his gut. Somewhere in the center of him the equilibrium faltered. He knew that the beast would have to kill, to draw blood, if he was ever to live in peace with it.
In the car, he watched the parade of familiar landscape, unmoved even by the nostalgia of a remembered boyhood. He had detested his visits back home. And the unending display of symbols and pomposity. The death cult of the von Kassels! He had always known that those dead ancestors, bones rotting in that hallowed real estate in Estonia, were strangers. Damn them all.
Disembarking, he felt the bite of the still chill morning. Siegfried stood and watched Garth put the chairs on the grassy knoll while the Baron and Karla moved slowly to the spot. Once they were seated, Garth had wrapped them tenderly in blankets and there they sat, the King and Queen, surveying the von Kassel domain. As always ... the people and the land. Enjoy this last glimpse, Father, he screamed within himself.
In his mind he felt the clock's hand move toward midnight. The hour struck. The ground rumbled beneath his feet. The time is now, he heard himself say, moving upward toward the thrones of the von Kassels, drawing the deadly sword of his anger.
Karla's eyes caught him as he moved and he saw her rise and the brief movement of his father's hand reaching out to stop her. Her actions were surprisingly quick, belying her age. For her, there could be no mistaking his intention.
"No," she said when he had reached her.
"You can't stop me. Not now. Or ever again." He tried to move past her, but she blocked his way.
"It is futile," he said, feeling the full fury of his anger, his figurative fist around the sword's handle.
"I know you have killed her." Yet it was not his mother he was avenging. "And that devil is going to know it ... he's going to know everything. Everything!"
"He is blameless..." she began, holding his arm. He tried to shake her loose, but the grip was as strong as a beast's claw.
"Blameless?" The word came rumbling from the center of himself, as if the ground's heat poured upward through his legs. He could hear the word shout into the stillness of the valley.
"Please Siegfried," she begged.
He tried to shake her away, but the claw held. He saw the Baron's face, hoping to find in it the hint of Armageddon. It is the devil's face, he told himself, letting the anger engulf him now. Confused, the Baron struggled to his feet.
"He is mad, Charles," Karla shouted.
She still clung to him, the claw was a vise.
"Karla..." It was his father's voice, abruptly silenced by some inner blow, as the old man clutched his chest and toppled.
"Not yet!" he shouted, dragging her forward. Still she held him, the strength of her grip like a stone anchor. The Baron's face was chalk white and he could hear the lungs' agony. The others started to move toward them.
"His medicine!" The realization goaded him. It was she holding herself back. The seconds delay took its toll.
They reached him in time to hear death rattle in his throat. It was only then that she released his arm.
The others came running. He saw Albert bending over the prostrate form, holding the thin wrist, looking into the open unseeing eyes.
"Let me," Karla whispered. Albert looked up at her, his face calm. He raised an arm, palm vertical, the familiar gesture of "halt."
"Enough," he said. "It is all over now. I'll attend to it."
Siegfried watched as she stiffened, a figure as implacable as the stone boulders strewn on the high plateau. Were her eyes laughing? He could not tell whether the churning in his gut was a hemorrhage or a sob.
CHAPTER 22
Albert had instructed the undertaker to bring the body in its coffin to the rectory of the castle, where it lay now on a raised pedestal of low tables, draped in the banner of the Old Order. Hans had brought down the colors from its place over the turret and it rested forlornly, breezeless, on the wooden mound.
The King is dead. Long live the King. He felt the sense of it in himself. He had already steeled himself for the ceremonial justifications, the ritualization of the passage, and decided now that however hypocritical, he would not deprive them of some measure of the old symbols.
The suddenness of death spared him the brunt of the ordeal, and relief mingled with his pose of sorrow. Or was it a pose? Actually, considering his knowledge, he could still define the outlines of loss within himself.
On the plateau, Rudi had told him of the visit with his father and had tried to explain what Mimi had done. A doctor from the nearby town had come to sedate her and he had left her in the castle in the care of a nurse.
"The shock..." he began, telescoping the message. "She is not a killer."
He saw in the man the terror of the boy, the hurts and slights of a lifetime. He could understand that, and he put an arm around his brother's broad back.
"It's all right, Rudi," he said, surprised at the fidelity of his affection, and the burden of his compassion. The biological bond held its own mysterious compulsion. Perhaps he could absorb his brother's pain.
"I'll make it right, Brother," Rudi pleaded, sensing the bond.
"I know."
It was Rudi who helped him carry the lifeless body of the Baron and place it gently in the back seat of the limousine. Garth, his face tearstained and gray, helped them ease the body onto the soft cushions.
In the act of assuming the responsibility for the details of the funeral, Albert knew he had made the symboli
c gesture of command. Adolph met him at the castle's entrance on his return.
"It is settled then with Rudi?" he asked. The Baron's death had left him unmoved. Only affirmation was essential.
"Yes."
His puddled chin quivered as he allowed himself the luxury of a broad but brief smile.
"So he was not as clever as he suspected," Adolph said. "A fool to the end."
"Yes," Albert agreed. "A fool to the end."
"He will cooperate in every way?"
"Of course."
"Well then," Adolph sighed. "Then perhaps it will be business as usual again."
"Yes, Adolph. Business as usual." Albert paused, observing the ravages of gluttony and greed, turning his face away in disgust. "We will discuss it after the service."
"Of course." Adolph said, stepping aside in deference.
Only when he thought of Olga did his courage falter. Their eyes had met as they boarded the cars. He had deliberately chosen to go with Wilhelm and his wife to avoid any confrontation that would mar the day, and he had brooded in impolite silence on the journey to the plateau. Mimi's act of madness had demonstrated a danger to Aleksandr that, in the full light of morning, could tip the scales of her decision. And the drama of the Baron's death had again postponed his receiving it. Only that frightened him.
But what he had decided for the future of the von Kassels was irrevocable. He knew what he had to do.
In the things that he could control he was decisive. He had made his arrangements for a proper but swift service to be held in the rectory, and he had secured the services of a local minister. To preside at the funeral of so distinguished a personage took little persuasion. Then he had gone to his room, spending the better part of the afternoon making phone calls.
Everything had gone smoothly, including the activation of arrangements for shipment of the coffin for burial in Estonia. That, he knew, would be the final irony. Other details followed in sequence. His New York office was alert. There was the matter of the plutonium, the delicate maneuvering that would provide Rudi with the last act of his penance. Then there were the legal formalities. And, above all, they must leave this place before the great eye of the press cyclops opened.