Hands of the Traitor

  "It's early days yet, Alec. Perhaps after all is said and done, the Lord has erased your memory in order to give you peace."

  Alec lay back and watched the clouds change shape high above. "I'm a murderer, Padre. You should be offering me forgiveness, not platitudes. Keep those for your Sunday sermons." He could speak his mind. The understanding between them was good.

  Fergus Hawkins set his deck chair back to its maximum inclination to face the low afternoon sun. "Sunny days are like heaven," he said with a sigh of satisfaction.

  "Not for the poor sods being shot to hell in France."

  "You can't come to terms with killing, can you, Alec." It was just a plain statement.

  Alec closed his eyes. In the Pas-de-Calais, he'd been responsible for twenty or thirty deaths within a matter of seconds.

  "I can come to terms with killing the Nazi bastards with their flying bombs, but I can't cope with killing an innocent French girl." He turned to face the padre. "You're right, it is pleasant out here on a day like this, on the right side of the Channel. Perhaps I'll retire from the army. Opt for an easy life like yours. Take up holy orders -- in civvy street of course. Hell!" He clutched at the padre's arm. "There was blood on that girl's face. I can see it now."

  Fergus took his hand and held it tightly for a moment. "Of course I'll pray for you. You need peace. May God grant you peace."

  "May God grant me my memory, Padre."

  "Perhaps not, Alec. Perhaps not."

  *

  New York -- January 1945

  FRANK HEINMAN stood by his secretary's desk, painfully aware of her heavy pregnancy. Skorensky had died in a racing accident a month ago, driving in his usual crazy way. It left him with the problem of finding a new chief executive officer, and the problem of paying off Karen McDowell. He tried not to think of his father having sex with her in this office.

  "Karen, I'm planning some major changes in DCI now you're going." He shuffled his feet uneasily, finding the conversation difficult. This was her last day, and he wanted to find out just how much she knew before offering money to care for the baby. With Skorensky out of the way -- conveniently out of the way, although he was reluctant to admit it -- Karen was the final link to the past.

  "Frank, you can do what you like. Only I can't see you're ever going to get on top of the problems at DCI."

  He recoiled at this use of his first name. His father, Albert, had been a stickler for staff using proper forms of address, but his secretary now spoke to him, the president, with what sounded like contempt. "You've worked for DCI since before the war, Karen."

  "Sure, Frank. Not that I knew much about the war at first, what with it happening over in Europe." She seemed tense.

  "Did my father...?" He hesitated, but he had to know. "Back in '39, Karen, did my father ever say anything about DCI and the Germans?"

  Karen nodded knowingly. "I think he wondered whose side to be on, what with the money coming from the German-American Bund. But I guess he tried to keep sort of neutral -- like a lot of Americans at that time."

  "Do you know anything about a business deal we did with the Germans in '37?"

  "Sure, I heard something. Don't forget, I was your father's personal secretary, too."

  He took his time before going on. "And what would you say if ... if I told you that DCI has cut itself off from Germany? Totally."

  "You mean cut itself off sort of recent?"

  He looked at her closely. "How recent would you say?" He could feel the palms of his hands sweating.

  She put a fresh sheet of paper in the typewriter for a final memo, like she was playing a game. "Your father said he was taking you to northern France. Then he got killed." She swiveled her chair away from the desk.

  He stared dumbly. "I didn't realize you knew anything about that trip, Karen."

  "Some surprise for our English cousins, so I heard. It wasn't any hunting trip up north, that's for sure."

  "But you never said..."

  She laughed. "That's right, Frank, I never said. No more than I said anything about the Berlitzan Project."

  "You bitch! You've been plotting this for months!" Now he knew why she was uptight.

  "I've made Photostats of some papers in the safe. My lawyer is holding them for me. They're ... like ... my insurance."

  "Are you threatening me with blackmail?" With Skorensky gone there was no way he could cope with this. Skorensky had wanted to eliminate Karen. He should have let him.

  "All I want is something for my future. And the baby's."

  "If you think I'm going to marry you, you..."

  She shook her head. "Marry you? You're a fool, Frank."

  "Then what?"

  "Financial security. Not that I want promotion to chief executive or anything. I want out, mister. Your company stinks. But I'll act dumb about the Nazis. It can be a secret between the two of us. Don't go sending anyone after me, or my lawyer will call the cops. I've protected my position, as they say in the movies."

  "You bitch, you bitch, you bitch." He couldn't help it; he burst into tears.

  She smiled.

  He rubbed his eyes and cheeks with the handkerchief he'd been winding round his fingers. "How much do you want?"

  "More than you've got, Frank."

  "How much?" he repeated, his voice sounding unsteady through the tears.

  She had such a confident look on her face. "Why don't you talk it over with your precious mama and see if she'll give me some of her money. Tell her about the deal your father did with the Nazis. And while you're about it, tell her what he did with me in his spare time."

  "I can't, Karen. She doesn't know anything about the Berlitzan Project, or about ... you know." He pointed at Karen's bulging stomach. "It would finish her."

  "Poor darling momma. But I'm sure you'll find a way. I want more money than you've got, mister, and your ma's a wealthy woman." She began to laugh. "If the kid's a girl, I'm calling her Victoria. A boy, and it's going to be Victor. I want to remember how I came out of this one a winner."

  "My father was a fool to do this to you. And I wish to God he'd never got involved with the Nazis."

  "It's too late for tears now, Frank. Believe me, one day your grubby little past is going to catch up with you." And she laughed again.

  *

  London

  OVER SIX months had passed since the raid in the Pas-de-Calais; seven agonizing months of a haunted memory. Alec Rider was invalided out of the army in March 1945. Temporary insanity. No one actually said it in his presence. Certainly not his wife. She rarely complained, even though she was finding it hard to cope with a mentally sick husband and an active ten-year-old. Most of the time she ignored him. It was easier that way.

  Alec Rider sat alone in the back garden in the spring sunshine. He tried not to fall asleep in the deck chair under the mountain ash which was now covered in white flowers. The dreams made him physically sick. Padre Hawkins had returned to Canada; the army had turned its back; the doctor never called.

  The nightmares were more frequent.

  The girl, her face covered in blood, opened her mouth.

  Then she screamed.

  And no one seemed to care.

  The Present

  Chapter 10

  The Present -- England

  MATT RIDER went straight to Mac the Hack's Internet café and started by checking the web pages of the Sunday papers. The story varied slightly from paper to paper, but one thing was clear: the dead Dutchman had been found clutching a gold signet ring. Two of the papers had close-up pictures of the ring, and it looked to be identical to the one his grandfather had brought back from France.

  He found a couple of useful addresses for commercial registers in America, and printed out a letter to an organization called NATA, the North American Trades Association in New York. Ken's suggestion sounded good. He had brought some Habgood Securities paper with him and it should give the letter some weight, as well as ensuring confidentiality.

  Dear NATA,


  I believe your organization has details of many North American businesses, going back over the past one hundred years.

  I am researching company history for a client, and wonder if you have a list of staff members of Domestic Chemicals International (DCI) for the period of the Second World War, 1939-1945. My client particularly needs to discover if any members of the Heinman family died within this period, and if so, where and when. Also, were any Heinmans from DCI serving in Europe during the war?

  It is possible DCI had a trading partner or subsidiary company operating in Germany during the 1930s and '40s, possibly for the production of chemicals for military use. Do you have any information on this?

  Please treat this letter in confidence, as my client does not wish DCI to be aware of his interest.

  Yours sincerely,

  Matt Rider

  He then wrote a letter to the French mayor in the town nearest the site where the ring was found, and posted it on the way to meet Zoé Champanelle at the White Lion.

  "Ken's been brilliant. He's giving me time off to find Sophie." He threw his jacket onto the back of a chair in the main bar. "What are you drinking?"

  Zoé rose and gave him a restrained hug. Standing up she seemed taller today, certainly taller than Louise. Maybe it was the shoes. In contrast to Louise, Zoé stood gracefully, not like someone auditioning for the leading role in the Hunchback of Nôtre Dame. He checked himself. It wouldn't do to have such final thoughts this early. Maybe the relationship with Louise wasn't completely over.

  Something seemed to hold Zoé back from showing typical Gallic affection. Perhaps it was just too soon for anything else. She wanted a glass of white house wine, the first time she'd asked for an alcoholic drink, and Matt took the opportunity to get a pint of beer for himself.

  "Monsieur Grieves is going to pay for your car to be mended?" Zoé asked after she had tasted and approved her wine.

  "He wanted to award me the Mothercare Cross. Bravery beyond the call of duty. But he's given me an old orange Mini instead. It used to belong to his daughter."

  "It is good?"

  "She's recently bought a new car, but the garage refused to take the Mini in part exchange."

  "You are joking, I think."

  Matt laughed. "Generous? You can tell Tom Grieves is in the same club as Ken. Come on, I'll take you for a drive. It's the next best thing to a Ferrari."

  Zoé held up her hand. "Now listen, mon ami, I have some news that is bad. Your grandfather, he will be famous."

  "How famous?"

  Zoé sounded cross. "It is a stupid nurse called Sister Ewing at the South Memorial Hospital. Your grandfather, you told me he was moved there for security -- oui?"

  "Yes," agreed Matt. "And it should never have been allowed. I want to ask him a few questions, but they won't let me visit him until he's settled down. Why, what's happened?"

  Zoé leaned closer. "Unfortunately, the hospital sister has what you English call a big mouth. I know, I have worked with women like her in France."

  Matt glanced over at the bar. "I fancy something to eat. What's Sister Ewing done?"

  "You are going to be mad about it, Matt." Zoé shook her head. "Here is the evening paper. I tried to phone you at the office, but Ken said you might be looking up an old ... an old flame called Louise. What is an old flame?" She made the question sound totally innocent.

  "An old girlfriend. Louise is just someone I knew." He shrugged as though the expression was of no consequence, and took the paper. It was folded back at page five. "Anyway, I was at the Internet café all afternoon. On my own."

  Zoé raised her eyebrows and looked unconvinced.

  Matt studied the write-up. LOCAL WAR HERO ALEC RIDER. The photograph showed his grandfather sitting in a hospital bed, proudly displaying a gold signet ring on his right hand. He groaned in disbelief. A reporter had managed to set foot where even the grandson was forbidden to tread.

  "At least he put his teeth in," he observed. "They must have given him a shot of something to seem this alert. Look at this!" Inset in the main photograph was a close-up of the signet ring. "That sister has a nerve. How do you know she's to blame?"

  "I telephoned the hospital and pretended to be a reporter wanting a story for a French newspaper."

  "Really?"

  "Of course. They told me the man from the local paper had got past Sister Ewing by a trick. I think there is more to it than that. I think she recognized the ring and telephoned the paper herself. Perhaps she let the reporter in. I tell you, Matt, I was angry."

  Matt felt an unexpected emotional tug. To think that Zoé had made that phone call for him.

  "You suppose I did well, Matt?"

  "You should take up acting. But I'm not sure the sister's done anything wrong. It's my grandfather's ring, not mine."

  Zoé sounded cross. "It is not ethical," she protested. "Hospital staff have no right to get in touch with the press about a patient."

  "It's a bit late now."

  "I think you want everything kept quiet while you investigate the Dutchman's ring."

  "I do, but they won't get the local rag in New York if I'm right about DCI being mixed up in this." Matt folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them. "I've had a busy day."

  Zoé slipped behind him and began to massage his neck. "You are too tense, mon ami. You must learn to relax."

  "I'm learning already." It was amazing the way Zoé did it; her fingers kneading his spine.

  "And what have you been doing?"

  "I've written a couple of letters."

  She ran her fingers up his neck and through his short hair. "Who did you write to?"

  "A New York trade association. I asked if any of the Heinmans were traitors, working for the Nazis in the war."

  "You were, I hope, a little more subtle than that?"

  The massage was over as unexpectedly as it had begun. Perhaps Zoé felt embarrassed, or it could be a calculated move to show promise of what was to come -- something to think about when he was alone. He wished he was back at his place with Zoé now, not on public view in the White Lion.

  He sat up and dabbed her playfully on the nose by way of a thank you. "Would I tell you how to care for your patients, Nurse Champanelle? Anyway, if they're guilty, it's time the Heinmans had a wake-up call."

  She kissed him on the cheek and seemed to be warming to him at last. Maybe it was the wine. "And who else is getting one of your so tactful letters?"

  "It was Ken's idea. I've written to the French mayor where the Dutchman started the riot."

  "What did you say to the mayor?"

  "I told him about Sophie. And I told him you're a French nurse and you'll go over and attend to him personally if he doesn't reply quickly."

  She didn't smile. "Please, do not make the jokes. Just because I am here with you, you must not..."

  "Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you." He'd not expected this reaction.

  She smiled, but it seemed rather forced. "I am feeling a little tangled. Please forgive me. It is Florian. He is making the big problems for me. What will you do about the newspaper report?"

  Matt felt a stab of unease. Who on earth was Florian? Was he the "understanding" Zoé had mentioned on their first meeting in the White Lion? But she wasn't about to offer an explanation.

  "I asked you what you will do about the newspaper, Matt."

  "Nothing. If I make a fuss they'll probably make sure they keep the story going for a couple of weeks. Fortunately the 'Local War Hero' hasn't been quoted much. He probably wasn't able to remember anything -- apart from the army giving him the ring to keep." Matt pointed to the page. "He says he wants to find the mysterious Fergus Hawkins. That's his old padre. According to the paper, Granddad blew up a Nazi rocket site single-handed. Probably an exaggeration. Says he still wonders about a French girl called Sophie Bernay." He shrugged. "I don't expect any harm's been done. He's not likely to make it into the nationals."

  "Ah." Zoé shook her h
ead so that her dark hair fell across her high cheekbones. "When I rang the hospital, they said..."

  "I don't want to know." He threw the paper onto the table. "Let's have something to eat from the bar. A French stick?"

  "It is crowded and noisy in here tonight, and you told me the food is awful. We will go for a drive in your new car, and you can tell me about your work."

  What you mean is, tell you about Louise. Not that he intended to say anything; and he wouldn't ask about Florian. He'd also have to stop making silly jokes.

  NORTH AMERICAN TRADES ASSOCIATION

  NEW YORK, USA

  Dear Mr. Rider,

  With reference to your letter which I received today, the Heinman about whom you request information will be Albert Becker Heinman, the wartime president of Domestic Chemicals Incorporated of New York. Albert B. Heinman was not involved in military service, and was killed in a hunting accident in Alaska in August 1944. His body was never recovered, and his young son Frank B. Heinman succeeded him as company president.

  Mr. Frank Heinman, although now in his seventies, has only recently retired and continues to take an active financial role in the family-run company. His son, Jason B. Heinman, now holds the position of president. The company has been trading as Domestic Chemicals International since 1966, and is still known as DCI.

  You appear to be confused over some of the dates. As a loyal American family, the Heinmans would most definitely not have been doing business with Nazi Germany in the war years.

  I suggest you contact Mr. Frank B. Heinman who will be intrigued to learn of your interest, and will be able to provide you with details of DCI's minimal commercial links with Germany in the mid 1930s for the production of artificial fibers.

  With regards,

  Ingrid Rosestein,

  Customer Inquiries Section.

  Matt clenched his fists in triumph as he showed Zoé the letter in his lunch break. "I know why Albert Heinman's body wasn't recovered. Alaska? He was working in France -- and the Dutchman found one of his hands last month. Not trading with Nazi Germany? Two gold signet rings from the same site, both with a D, a C and an I?"

  Zoé took the letter. "It sounds perhaps concluant. What next?"

  "If the Heinmans did something to my grandfather, I want to nail them to the wall."

  "And what will you use as the 'ammer?"

  "Sophie, if I can find her. That woman must know something. There's one more person I have to see, and then we wait for the French mayor to dig up Sophie. Well, not literally I hope."