"Chest injuries mostly. Looks like he was going too fast. Always been trouble, this bend. We've only just cut him free. An American, by his papers."
Matt knew he'd be paranoid to imagine the Heinmans were after him. "Do you have his name?"
Fortunately the Mini's tax disc still had eleven days to run. The policeman raised his eyebrows. "Miller. Milton Miller."
"Can I see him? I might know who he is."
The policeman glanced towards the ambulance. The emergency team had the man on a stretcher. "Okay, but don't talk to him."
"Wouldn't dream of it," said Matt. He walked across the clearing and crouched down by the stretcher. "Is your name Miller?" he demanded.
The driver of the Ford, a man aged about fifty, had blood on his forehead, but his eyes were open. He looked at Matt in surprise. "You're Matt Rider!"
"Never mind about me. Is your name Miller?"
The man nodded. He was probably in shock and therefore likely to tell the truth.
"And you work for DCI?"
The man nodded again.
"Did Mr. Heinman send you?"
Matt thought he detected a nod of the head.
"Tell your boss to keep away from me. Okay?"
The ambulance crew pushed Matt aside. "We're taking the patient to accident and emergency," a man in green coveralls told him.
The policeman came running across. "I told you not to talk to him."
Matt leaned over the man on the stretcher. He had time for a final question. "What does Mr. Heinman want with me?"
The man just stared.
Matt walked back to his car. He should have asked the last question first.
The ambulance turned in the road and drove off, siren screaming.
"Do you know him?" asked the policeman who had followed Matt to the Mini.
"I think he's a newspaper reporter from America." Matt slipped the car into gear and drove slowly from the scene.
Zoé had been sitting quietly. "What is going on?" she demanded.
"It's the man who called to see Ken. He told Ken he's from the press. He isn't. He works for DCI."
"And you thought it was Monsieur 'Einman?" Zoé began to laugh.
He decided to say nothing.
"Surely you cannot think Monsieur 'Einman would travel all the way from New York to spy on you?"
"If the Heinmans weren't in France in the war, why did they send Miller over to snoop around? They must be worried about something." He floored the accelerator as they crested the hill.
"It might be a coincidence."
"And it might not," he retorted, stamping hard on the brakes for a bend he'd forgotten about. "My parents were too busy scrapping to find out what had really happened to Granddad. I've got a horrible feeling we've left it too late to get justice."
Zoé sighed. "I was right, I think, about the hospital. It is depressing. The problem of your grandfather, it is not yours. Your grandmother should have got treatment for him."
"My grandmother was a proud woman. She never talked about my grandfather's problems. She believed that they'd go away if she hushed them up."
"But she was wrong."
"Yes, she was wrong."
Zoé stayed silent for a few minutes as they drove back to town. Then she turned sideways in the passenger seat and put her hand on his shoulder. "Would you like me to come with you to France?"
She asked the question so naturally.
He stopped the car and stared at Zoé. Her perfume was amazing; it worked like an aphrodisiac. Not that he needed one. A sedative might be more appropriate -- thanks to Zoé still being involved with someone called Florian. He found himself wondering what Zoé would look like in twenty, thirty years. He knew what Louise would look like; he'd met her mother.
"What are you thinking about, Matt?"
He bet Zoé's mother looked slender and graceful. It was funny, the older he got, the more he became conscious of the need to have some thought for the future. A few years ago it was how a girl looked now that counted, not the sight she might become one day. Mrs. Habgood had probably looked okay once -- no, probably not. Not that he could ask Ken.
"Well, do you want me to come to France or not?"
"Are you sure?" Perhaps he'd not answered straight away because he was uneasy about making a commitment so soon after finishing with Louise. He tried not to sound too hesitant; tried not to sound like a tongue-tied adolescent setting up his first date.
"But separate rooms."
"If that's what you want, Zoé."
She nodded. "It's what Florian would want."
Chapter 12
JASON HEINMAN looked down through the rapidly thinning cloud at the flat fields and drab rows of houses on the approach to Heathrow. It was probably raining down there. His father was getting him over to England on some damn fool errand, making him come by scheduled airline rather than use the company jet. The company had to save money, so his father said. Anyway, business class on United Airlines was a damn sight safer than the DCI Gulfstream.
His father had bought the Gulfstream II as a company airplane eleven years ago, and it had seemed old then. It replaced an even older propeller aircraft, in order to save a refueling stop in the Azores on the regular trips to DCI in Geneva. One day the Gulfstream would stop over the Atlantic for good, and with any luck his father would be on board at the time. That way he'd be a president with full fiscal powers, able to get at DCI money to clear his debts with Hammid Aziz.
He flicked through his passport and visa, ready for immigration. Jason Becker Heinman. At least this trip to England had got him out of the States, away from Aziz and the unexpected demand for repayment. The deadline set by Aziz ran out today.
The aircraft wheels bumped on the wet tarmac with a succession of screeches. While his fellow travelers breathed a sigh of relief, even a silent prayer at a safe touchdown, Jason thought of the aggravation his father was giving him. The old man was up to something.
"ARE YOU getting out of the company at last?" Jason leaned back in the leather rear seat as the chauffeur swung the stretched Mercedes out of the airport approach towards the M4 and the center of London.
His father who had come to meet him sounded unexpectedly scornful. "And let you get your hands on company money? Not while I'm still alive. And it's about time you chopped that thing off the back of your head. Who the hell ever heard of a fifty-year-old president of a company wearing a pony tail? The damn thing's even going gray."
He stared at his father. Things had been tense for years, but he'd learnt to handle the relationship. Could his father know about his problem with Aziz? "Forty-nine-year-old president," he retorted.
The Mercedes accelerated past a filthy white van that had been hogging the overtaking lane in the pouring rain, oblivious to the chauffeur's flashing headlights. The van driver showed the derisory two fingers so typical of the British.
"So what do you want me to do?" Jason tried to conduct a rare, sensible conversation with his father. He put his favorite fawn baseball cap on his lap and ran his fingers through the strands of his pony tail. He hadn't realized it was going gray.
"There's something you have to know. I'll tell you at the hotel." His father lowered his voice so the driver would be unable to hear. "Something called the Berlitzan Project."
"Never heard of it."
"There's no one left in DCI who has. It belongs in the past."
"But not any more?"
"You've got it in one, Jason."
At the hotel he knew what to expect. His father's suite was luxurious, while he had the injured man's room near the top. Being company president counted for nothing.
"It was okay for Miller. No point in bothering the desk clerk," his father explained.
But he was having none of it. He stormed downstairs to discover that the hotel only had one executive suite, the one which his father had already taken. But he could have a choice of two decent sized rooms on the top floor. Superior rooms, the woman at the desk called them.
He told the clerk to transfer his luggage to whichever room had the better view, and returned to his father.
He sat in his father's suite and looked around. It wasn't envy, but he felt angry that his father always seemed to come out on top in any business arrangement. The old fool was never going to hand over full power while he was alive. "So, DCI has troubles."
"Serious troubles, Jason. We're facing a major crisis."
"You mean with Miller in hospital."
"Hell no. CEOs seem to make a habit of crashing cars. I've learnt to live with that one."
"What's the problem then?"
"Business confidence. The financial world could desert us if news of the Berlitzan Project gets out -- just when we're ready to announce our cancer relief drug."
"You'd better tell me."
"We made a poison gas in the last war. Secretly, of course. We called it Berlitzan oil."
Jason shrugged. "So what? Many companies made poison gas. I can think of a few famous names in Germany straight off. It's not exactly done them any harm."
"It was a clever concept. Your grandfather got the idea from stink bombs. DCI was selling it to the Nazis."
His father had gone mad. "DCI was selling stink bombs to the Germans?"
"There's no need for sarcasm, Jason. Tell me, what makes a guy walk into a crowded shopping mall and let fly with a pump-action twelve gauge?"
Jason shrugged. "He's some sort of psycho?"
"Okay, then what makes a man go kill his family one night with an axe?"
"Stress?"
"You've got it, Jason. It's called a stress syndrome. In its mildest form, you get a guy behind you at the lights who keeps blasting his horn. Then everyone joins in. Or there's a violent argument in the line at the supermarket checkout. One person triggers a chain reaction. I bet you've seen it."
"Every day. I haven't a clue why it happens. What am I supposed to be, some sort of shrink? No doubt you have the answer?"
His father nodded. "DCI had the answer. Berlitzan oil was powerful stuff."
"You're one daydreaming son of a bitch, Father." Jason laughed in disbelief. "You're not going to tell me that every time a maniac takes a few pot shots in a public place, he's been popping some DCI pill."
"The accident at the Nazi missile site finished it. DCI could have been a world leader at the end of the war. Some of the Berlitzan oil is still buried near the town of Saint Somer in northern France. In small gold cylinders."
Jason jumped to his feet. "Not that Dutchman with the knife?"
"That's what I think. Hell, I don't know. Something happened with the Dutchman. It's been happening on this planet ever since there have been people. Push someone a little too far and they explode."
"What are you saying: all lunatics since the Stone Age have been getting a whiff of your Berlitzan stuff?"
"You don't need to be a stress counselor to know there's tension bubbling below the surface. A supermarket line. A traffic jam. Not in everyone of course. A dog barks all through the night, or a baby cries too long. The anger is already there, just waiting for someone to snap."
"Bit cynical, aren't you?" grinned Jason.
"Think what happens when a group's out drinking beers together. It's how riots start. Alcohol breaks down the natural inhibitions that hold us back from going crazy."
He considered his father's words. "And?"
"Give a hundred people a sniff of Berlitzan oil. Only two or three need be affected to cause mayhem. The rest get caught up in the anger."
"You smell it? Like pheromones?"
"Maybe the modern equivalent would be food additives. The wrong sort can work havoc in an allergic child. Imagine if that kid could ingest all those chemicals in one go. Hell, think what your mother used to be like with PMS." His father laughed uneasily at the memory. "Something unbalances the system, that's all I know."
"My grandfather was helping the Germans?"
"He got killed when he took me to France in forty-four. The Nazis were planning to launch two flying bombs that night, aimed at London, with six gold cylinders of Berlitzan oil in each."
"Would the cylinders break on impact?"
"The Germans were trying to perfect a device that would puncture the cylinders when the motor cut, and spray the contents just before the bomb exploded. Not easy with such a heavy impact."
"So what were you and grandfather doing in France?"
"We wanted to make sure the Germans didn't keep anything back for analysis. We were boarding a small plane to get out of France in a hurry, and I realized a French girl had stolen the samples. Then the shooting started. Scared the hell out of me. That's how I got these injuries to my arm and chin."
Jason had to laugh. "Not very patriotic wounds, were they? Anyway, what girl are you talking about?"
"I guess she'd be my age now. Miller read about her in the local paper. An old soldier has started talking about her in hospital. He was there, Jason. That old soldier was there. He killed my father. The whole thing sure jogged a memory. Sophie Bernay. A French name. The camp hostess." Out came the white handkerchief to wipe his sweating palms. "I wasn't even twenty-one. The whore hid the oil in the ground."
"And you think whenever some maniac goes berserk, they've found one of your gold cylinders?"
"Of course not. Some people are always ready to go over the top. That was the key to the Berlitzan Project. All we needed was a trigger. Berlitzan oil finished the job."
Jason turned himself sideways in the luxurious armchair. The idea hadn't gelled yet, but he could feel something coming. "If it's gone for good, why the panic?"
"The soldier's grandson is a PI, and he's ferreting out all he can. You have to help me, Jason."
"This is a busy time for DCI, what with the release programmed for the cancer drug. I've got TV interviews booked in the States. I don't have time to run around cleaning up your mess. I rely totally on Simon Urquet to sort out problems. After all, he's the company lawyer."
"Urquet's in Geneva right now. Anyway, the less people who know about this the better. That's why I need your help."
Jason stood up. The luxurious hotel armchair already felt uncomfortable. "How am I meant to run the company without a CEO? It's your fault Miller's in hospital. I should be in New York right now, not racing round Europe like some blue-assed fly."
"You've got personal debts."
"What the hell business is it of yours?"
"You can't hide things like that. You should never have got involved with a man like Aziz."
"Aziz?"
"Hammid Aziz, the arms dealer. Remember, your sins will find you out, as the preacher used to say."
"They sure found you out, you old hypocrite. So what's the deal?"
"I pay Aziz off, and you sort this one out for me."
He turned to his father in mock disgust. "I hope you're not going to ask me to kill an old man now."
"Hell no, he's senile." His father twisted the handkerchief around his fingers. "I'm more worried about the French woman, Sophie Bernay. I want you to go to France and find out if she remembers anything about me. You can do what Miller did and say you're a reporter."
"Miller's got two broken legs."
"Then be careful."
"You sure it was an accident with Miller?"
"Hell, boy, I don't know." His father sounded angry. "Seems he never made a bend in the highway."
"Maybe the problem will go away if we keep quiet."
"I'm worried about the press, Jason."
"Let me get back to the States. I've got contacts in the U.S. media. I can keep the lid on this one."
"It's the foreign press who'll blow the lid for us."
He nodded. His father had a valid point. "How about I visit the grandson and ask him straight out for Sophie Bernay's address?"
"Miller tried it at the place where Rider works. Hardly got inside the office door. The English are a cold lot. They'll not welcome anyone from the next street, let alone our side of the Atlantic."
"Miller got his home address from the voting records in town, but I don't want Rider finding out we're in England. He might go stirring things up even more."
*
MATT MADE sure his camera was tucked safely out sight under the passenger seat of the Mini, and walked into the street outside Ken's office to wait for Zoé. As well as meeting Sophie in France, he wanted to explore the old launch site where the Dutchman had dug up the ring. There might be something there to photograph and tell his grandfather about.
The sun shone through Zoé's thin dress as she walked towards him, down the street this time, instead of up. The low cut dress hugged her body -- small dark flowers on a mid blue background today. Amazing. Had she worked out about the sun and chosen the direction for maximum impact?
The kiss was brief. She seemed to be holding back. He found it hard to read Zoé's intentions, but perhaps he was behaving the same way himself. Part of him sensed that this could be the relationship he'd always wanted, and the potential of it scared him. Zoé still hadn't found any nursing work in England, and he wondered if she was even intending to find a job over here. She gave the impression of wanting to escape from something. He hoped it was from Florian.
"I've booked the cross-channel ferry from Dover, and a hotel near Calais for tomorrow," he told her.
"Separate rooms?"
He nodded. That had been her idea, not his. "I'll pick you up from the hostel at ten."
"I will be ready. You look anxious, mon ami. You are worried about your grandfather?"
"Granddad's okay. I just wish Ken hadn't told Miller I'm off to France."
"You must not blame yourself."
"I should never have written to America using my own name. I wouldn't have done anything so careless for a client."
"You did it for your grandfather."
"I did it for me." He kicked a stone along the road. "The Heinmans are a powerful family, but I can't see them following us to France."
Zoé shook her head. "See, you are not being careful. You have to assume the most evil will take place."
"Assume the worst, because it may happen?"
"Exactement. But maybe we can do nothing to stop it."
"You're a fatalist." He didn't mean it to sound like an accusation.
"I most certainly am not." Zoé sounded shocked. "If we stay in England, the evil may happen in France. And if we go to France, it may happen here. Anyone can get it right with ... what is the word?"
Hands of the Traitor Page 10