Miller fingered the curled lead of the handset. The ex-president was too old to still be playing around at DCI. He should have shut the door and gone home for good when he stepped down last month. There was no reply from the other end, although he could hear Frank Heinman fidgeting and breathing hard.
"Jason's furious. Wants to know why I'm in England, Frank. I told him to see you about it. My advice is to tell him everything."
"You hold on there, Miller. I've spilled my coffee."
Miller waited for the mess to be cleaned up. Jason Heinman should have been given total control of DCI when he took over as president. It was Albert Heinman in the 1930s who had arranged for the oldest surviving Heinman to stay in harness for life -- like the Royal Family in England. DCI wouldn't have survived without the expertise of the company lawyer, always ready to sort out Jason's indiscretions. Simon Urquet was a loyal man who up to now had done everything legally and illegally possible to keep DCI out of trouble.
Jason had been a problem child, so Frank said. Whatever, he'd grown tall and strong, looking just like his father must have been twenty years ago. But Frank had become more stomach than chest recently. Jason even grew a pointed beard, trimmed like the one in his grandfather Albert's portrait. Perhaps he thought the beard made him superior. Miller smiled to himself. Maybe it did. The only downer was the ponytail, which his father couldn't stand. There was little love lost between father and son.
"I'm coming over to England tomorrow." Frank Heinman's voice sounded unsteady. Something was changing in the old man. "I'm using the company jet. Meet me at Heathrow."
"Sure, Frank. But there's nothing more you can do that..."
"We need to talk, Miller, and I hope your hotel's not too expensive. I know what you CEOs are like when you're spending company money."
"You'll approve, Frank."
"Glad to hear it."
Miller replaced the phone and went downstairs. At the reception desk he cancelled his own executive suite as from tomorrow breakfast, changing it for a room on one of the higher floors. He arranged an identical room for Frank Heinman and wondered if the ex-president would accept it without protest.
New York
JASON Becker Heinman finished his phone call and looked at his desk clock. "What the hell are you doing with those papers, Caroline?" he called loudly. "I've been waiting to sign them for the last ten minutes."
"Coming, sir."
He watched his temporary PA hurry in from the outer office. She brought a folder to his desk. He checked through the pages, still warm from the printer, and was about to sign the last sheet when he picked it up and tore it in half. "You stupid girl, these figures don't add up. You have to smarten up and stop making typos." He'd been waiting to have a go at her all week.
"I ... I'm sorry, sir." Caroline went scarlet at the reprimand. "I didn't realize, only I was working in a rush for you, and..."
"Bring it back in five minutes." The work would all be on the computer ready to correct and reprint.
"I need to know..."
"The only thing you'll be needing to know is where to find another job if you don't get a move on. No more mistakes."
She turned as she went out of the office. "Your father left a message while you were making your last call," she said quietly. "He wants you to ring him at home."
He nodded. Caroline was his favorite temp in spite of her slapdash approach to typing. She lacked self-confidence. Hell, the girl was even crying. "Is that all?"
"A foreign gentleman phoned from Washington. He sounded ... well, kind of ... foreign."
"His name?" Jason felt a slight unease at Caroline's hesitance. Paula, his permanent secretary would have been more specific. A foreign gentleman could mean business, or....
"Mr. Aziz." Caroline stared at her pad through her tears. "Mr. Hammid Aziz. He said you know him." She sniffed loudly. "He wants to talk to you."
Jason Heinman felt his pulse race. He'd not spoken to the man for ... five or six years it must be. Aziz was probably after more chemical supplies for export to the Middle East. Chemicals that stayed off the official export records; chemicals for use by militant groups. His under-the-counter deals with Hammid Aziz had to stop now that he was president.
"I'll get the call myself." He motioned to Caroline to close the door as she left.
He flicked through his diary for the Washington number. "Hammid? Becker here." He remembered just in time. He was plain Becker on a private deal like this, not Jason Becker Heinman, president of DCI.
"Ah, Becker, you owe me money."
Something about the man's way of speaking amused him, yet the voice was one that made him cautious. Hammid Aziz always got what he wanted.
"Sure, Hammid, I know the arrangement. But it was a long time ago. Keeping well?"
He glanced through the glass panel to the outer office to make sure Caroline was busy at the computer. It had seemed so simple. A secret deal with Aziz six years ago; some hazardous chemicals the man needed for one of his arms deals. Then the offer of a loan. No, no hurry to repay it, Becker. The agreement had been informal and easy. Then the occasional small request by Aziz for more chemicals, never through the books, and an offer of further loans. Surely Aziz hadn't expected the money back. It was all part of the murky world of chemical warfare and arms dealing.
"I also know the arrangement we have, Becker. You let me have goods, and I pay plenty of money for them. I also lend you half million dollars. It is good for the new president of DCI to have money, eh?"
"And I'm grateful, Hammid. Is there a problem?"
"A big problem for you, Becker. You have two days to pay me back."
England
"LISTEN, MILLER, DCI is deep in it and I'm relying on you to haul the company out." Frank Heinman felt claustrophobic in this cramped hotel room that Miller had booked for him. English hotels sure had a lot to learn on room size.
"Okay, Frank, but I guess there are problems."
"Problems? People are still hunting Nazi war criminals. They'll crucify us over the Berlitzan Project."
"Not me, Frank." Miller laughed nervously. "I wasn't born until 1961."
Frank Heinman yawned loudly. Twice. "I'm tired, Miller. The flight from New Jersey was dreadful. That Gulfstream is hellish old."
Miller stayed silent.
"Tell me again what this guy, Habgood, said about the French girl."
"Nothing, Frank. Well, just what I told you. Matt Rider works for Habgood Securities and he's going to France. I guess he wants to find the woman his grandfather met in 1944. Most of what I know comes from the local newspaper."
"What was that name you got? Sophie Bernay wasn't it? And you said she was blonde?" He became silent for a moment. He could only remember one blonde from that night. Blonde, sexually uncooperative, and French. She'd even laughed at his attempts to....
He turned to look around the hotel bedroom. "This is one hell of a rat hole you've booked me into, Miller. The first thing I'm doing is upgrade. It might suit you up here, but I'm used to a better standard of living than this."
"But, Frank, on the phone you said..."
"Can't say I disapprove of the CEO saving money, Miller, but an ex-president deserves better."
"I'll attend to it right away, Frank. Perhaps there'd be something better for me as well."
He tried with his fifth match to light the free cigar from reception. His left hand was giving trouble again, making it impossible to hold the match. He decided it was caused by tension. "No, you're doing fine where you are, Miller." He burped twice. "Never did like transatlantic flights. The change in time zones plays havoc with my guts. When you've fixed me a new room, you can go out and keep an eye on young Rider."
As Miller left the room Frank recalled Skorensky and his crazy driving back in '44. "And take it easy on the highway," he called. "They drive on the left over here."
*
MATT STOOD outside Habgood Securities after work and waited for Zoé to join him. The hospital had r
ung to tell him he could visit his grandfather for the first time this evening, and Zoé said she definitely wanted to go with him.
He noticed a large Ford in the road. The man sitting behind the wheel clearly didn't want to be seen, and held a newspaper high enough to conceal all but his eyes. Why did everyone take a PI for a fool? The American who'd come to see Ken had been in a dark Ford like this. Before he could walk up and confront the driver, Matt heard Zoé walking briskly down the street. He turned. She was walking surprisingly rapidly considering the heels on her shoes.
"Are we going straight to see your grandfather?" she asked, sounding out of breath as she gave him a brief kiss on the cheek.
He opened the door of the Mini for Zoé to get in. He still felt embarrassed by the bright orange color. "If that's okay with you. I warn you, it could be unpleasant at the South Memorial."
"I know. Psychiatric hospitals are the places most depressing all over the world."
Matt divided his attention between Zoé and the big Ford. "Anyway, Granddad's only there for a few weeks."
"Perhaps," said Zoé.
"What does that mean?"
"It means perhaps."
Matt let it drop. He didn't want to think about a permanent future for anyone in a secure hospital. "Push the window open, Zoé. This car stinks of damp."
"Of course it does. This car, it is so old."
Matt grunted. "Older than old. It's a wreck."
The Ford moved off behind them as they came out of the service yard, the driver keeping well back. Matt watched in the rear-view mirror and decided he wasn't having anyone snooping on his movements.
"Excuse the speed."
He put his foot down and the engine responded immediately. It still felt strange to sit so close to the road and so close to the front of the car, but he could fling the Mini around on its rock hard suspension with a surprising lack of restraint. The South Memorial Hospital was at least a half hour drive, but why go the direct route? The big Ford would have fun keeping up on minor roads.
Zoé pulled her collar up against the wind ripping through the open window. "Is it all right if I close it a little?"
"Go on, but don't turn round. We're being followed."
Zoé pushed the window nearly shut. "Is this some kind of a silly joke?"
"It happens from time to time."
The route out of town went around a steep hill known locally as the Mount before joining the winding road over the grassy downs. Matt knew that in a couple of miles the road would dip towards a bend where the camber was all wrong. Huge beech trees lined both sides of the road, their spreading branches throwing the corner into shadow. He remembered how in his younger days he'd taken great delight in setting up the angle of his old Fiesta XR2, foot flat on the floor, drifting through the radius on full throttle. It would be interesting to see what the Mini made of the maneuver.
There were no vehicles ahead. There hardly ever were. Matt applied full power as the road fell away towards the trees. As he balanced the car for the adverse camber he glanced in his mirror. The driver of the Ford had closed the gap.
The Mini, its front tires protesting, drifted in a series of ragged steps through the bend. Matt kept his foot on the floor and let the car surge through the fast twists that followed in quick succession, then eased back.
"Can I open my eyes?" asked Zoé, her voice faint.
Matt looked in the mirror. "He's gone."
"Gone to change his underwear perhaps?"
"Nobody asked him to stay with us." He tried to change up to a non-existent fifth gear. Zoé was right, he'd probably scared the pants off the man.
The red and white sign of the hospital was too prominent to miss. It made a bit of a change from the subtle green and gold of the Saint Monica's board. They drove round the back to the area set aside for visitors.
They were early; visiting time had only just begun. The car following them down the slope went into a staff parking bay. With some relief Matt noticed it was an old Opal. The Ford might have been in some sort of trouble on the bend, or maybe the driver had lost interest. Certainly no one had followed them the rest of the way. The orange Mini was becoming more appealing every day he drove it. It was just a shame it was such a wreck.
It took nearly ten minutes to be briefed before being taken upstairs to the room where his grandfather was in bed. Matt smiled at him lying against a pile of pillows. The nurse explained that he still needed to be sedated. Not so heavily today, she said, but still sedated. Matt leaned over the bed. His grandfather's eyes stayed open, staring at the ceiling.
"Evening, Granddad," he said softly, so as not to cause alarm.
"Who's there?" The eyes were either sightless, or the brain was switched off.
"It's Matt, Granddad. And I've brought a friend. She's called Zoé."
The pathetic figure in blue hospital pajamas seemed to be waking from a heavy sleep. Recognition was slow.
"Sit down, Matt."
Matt looked at the nurse. "You can leave us now," he said.
She shook her head firmly. "Out of the question, Mr. Rider. Dr. Jamieson says your grandfather is not to be left alone with members of the public."
"Except reporters," he retorted.
The nurse reddened.
"I don't suppose Sister Ewing is here," he added.
"Sister Ewing is on nights this week." The nurse wriggled uncomfortably.
Matt began to feel awkward. The nurses had a thankless job to do, and he wasn't helping. "Okay, I'm sorry," he said. "It's just that I'm not used to places like this."
His grandfather seemed so feeble with his teeth out. They were probably in the plastic box on the bedside cabinet. His eyes looked red and inflamed, either from lack of sleep or from the medication they'd been pumping into him. Matt took hold of the wrinkled hand and watched the gold ring glint. His grandfather was nearly ninety, but he often looked older. About a hundred and fifty today.
The red eyes blinked quickly a few times, as though the rapid blinking would clear the mind. "I can't get it off, you know. Major Jackson gave it back to me. He said I deserved it. I cut a man's hand off to get that ring." He began to shake. "There were two rings. I think I cut both hands off." The eyes looked anxiously at Matt. "Are you Major Jackson?"
Matt forced a small laugh as he glanced self-consciously at the nurse. "I'm Matt, your grandson."
Again the slight awakening. "Yes, of course. Matt, my lad, how are you? It must be twenty years since I saw you."
"It's about two weeks," said Matt quietly. "You were in Saint Monica's. I expect you'll go back there soon."
A man in hospital pajamas and dressing gown shuffled at a snail's pace past the open door, shouting abuse at the nurse holding his arm.
"God save me from old age," Matt whispered to Zoé as he took hold of her hand. Then he raised his voice. "I think I've found the girl you met in France, Granddad."
Zoé pulled her chair closer to the bed as though one of the family. "You said her name was Sophie," she added.
"I killed Sophie." The voice trembled as it rose in volume. "I don't remember, that's the bloody trouble. I blame those two Heinmans for everything."
Matt patted his grandfather on the shoulder. "Don't upset yourself."
"Blonde she was." The wrinkled hands caught hold of Matt's arm. "I fancied her, Matt, I really fancied her. I wanted to bring her back to Blighty and set up a love nest. Not that your grandmother would have liked it -- I'd been married ten years!"
"You've told me that before, Granddad." Matt could have added, "Lots of times." The build-up for the joke was very, very familiar. It was new to Zoé. She was laughing.
The nurse just stared. But what the hell, this old man had been through enough for his country, and he was entitled to talk about his exploits. He'd been a hero, but the world had passed him by. Heroes were soon forgotten when they were less than physically and mentally perfect.
"Sophie isn't dead. I'm going to France to see her." Matt leaned forward
to make sure his grandfather understood. "She'll know what happened to you."
The information was received without recognition. Matt knew that for years everyone had been telling his grandfather to forget about the girl. He'd often tried to trot out the same banality himself.
Supposing he could persuade the ageing Sophie to come back with him from France; would his grandfather know the woman again anyway, after all this time? Ken was right, any French woman would do as far as his grandfather was concerned.
The medication was fast reclaiming the patient. Further explanation seemed pointless. The eyes became sightless again, staring at the ceiling. "Yes, find Sophie for me, Matt," his grandfather said indistinctly. "But I think she's dead." The eyes finally closed.
"It would be best if you left now, Mr. Rider." The nurse's voice carried authority.
Matt pulled the two chairs back to the side of the room. "I'm going to France to find a woman he knew," he said.
"That will be nice for him."
It wasn't worth any further explanation. No one took the old man's mental trauma seriously; not even the medical staff.
Something told Matt to drive back across the downs, just to make sure the Ford hadn't come off at the bend. Not that he'd feel guilty. People shouldn't try their hand at tailing unless they could handle their own vehicle properly.
"I've always liked my granddad." He took the sweeping bends a little more easily as he chatted. "My parents thought he was a nuisance, but then they didn't like each other either."
"He was a nuisance to the family?" asked Zoé.
"Not to me he wasn't. He was a lovely old grandfather who used to laugh and joke, play tricks, and tell outrageous stories about the war. Perhaps the stories were true. Well, some of them. Maybe."
The ambulance, its blue lights flashing, almost blocked the road. The police watched while the crew from a breakdown truck connected a chain to the wreckage of a dark Ford jammed between the densely packed beech trees. A police officer signaled to Matt to wait.
"Anyone hurt?"
The police officer studied the Mini's tax disc and number plate. He would be from the Trinity Green police station where Matt had once worked, but he didn't know him.
Hands of the Traitor Page 9