Hands of the Traitor

  "And your grandfather?"

  "He certainly became famous for two days -- when he got into the nationals."

  *

  THE CHAMBER of Commerce was a large house in one of the few remaining leafy roads in the area; a former mansion and still glorious, supported by wealthy local business for the benefit of wealthy local business. Matt parked his battered Mini in a slot between two executive cars.

  The woman in the front office recognized him as soon as he opened the door. She looked daggers.

  "I've come to see Louise Grantham," he said lightly.

  He'd always suspected the dragon was a mother figure to Louise; a confidante who viewed him with suspicion whenever he called here.

  "I don't imagine Louise will see you, Mr. Rider. Not after what you've done to her. Frankly I'm surprised you've got the..."

  "Just ring her and tell her to come down," interrupted Matt, probably confirming all the woman's worst prejudices. Goodness knows what Louise had been saying about him.

  "You'll have to wait."

  Matt said he wouldn't wait; he'd go upstairs and find Louise.

  The woman must have phoned a warning. By the time he got to the top of the impressive marble staircase, the sort seen in costume dramas where a demure maiden walks hesitantly down to take her first dance with the handsome Mr....

  "Matt!"

  "Louise, I've come to ask you something."

  "I thought we weren't seeing each other," she snapped.

  "That was your idea, not mine."

  A skinny youth in a tight-fitting suit, his black hair greased flat like a pre-war matinee idol, came out of the next office and stayed to watch and listen. Matt noticed that Louise stood more upright than usual, as though her new boyfriend made her feel self-assured. She was Esmerelda, no longer Quasimodo. Even her hair was blonde all the way to the roots.

  "Have you come to ask me back?" She seemed to be calming down a little. "You've got a new job?"

  "A new car." Matt stared at the matinee idol until he moved downstairs and out of earshot. "I'm trying to find out about a company called DCI, Domestic Chemicals International in New York. What they did in the past, what they're doing now, who runs it. That sort of thing."

  It might have been his imagination, perhaps wishful thinking, but Louise seemed disappointed by the practical nature of his request. Maybe she was expecting him to fall to his knees and beg her to think again.

  When he was away from Louise he had no problem. But here he wondered if they should give it another go. He looked at her closely, remembering the things they'd shared over the last two years. The good times together as well as the upsets. The misunderstandings.

  The betrayal.

  And yet he still felt something. You couldn't just wipe out memories like that. Perhaps next time it would be different.

  "New York? I can find you the address of an American trade association. They'll have records going back to the war years."

  "I've already written to one of them. NATA. The North American Trades Association. I heard back from them this morning. They suggest I contact the ex-president if I want to know anything more. I can't. If this inquiry comes up with an answer I don't want, I'd prefer to keep Domestic Chemicals in the dark."

  "In the dark? You surely don't think a trade association is going to treat your letter in confidence." Louise didn't sound critical, just matter of fact. She might be saying it to make him think he couldn't manage without her.

  He shrugged. "Why should they worry about a simple question?"

  "If you worked here, you'd know that most of the innocent sounding inquiries have a hidden agenda."

  "So?"

  "We're here to protect our members, so we let them know if anyone's interested in them. If you've written to NATA, your request will have been flagged up with DCI for sure."

  "I marked it confidential. What else could I have done?"

  "You should have come to me. I could have found out everything you wanted in the company records, and no one would have been the wiser."

  "I didn't want to bother you." He spoke cautiously, as though treading on thin ice that could break without warning. "Is it too late to ask for help now?"

  "No problem. Alistair's away at a conference. I can stay on this evening and see what I can unearth."

  Alistair? So that was his name. Louise hadn't told him before.

  The confrontation he'd feared hadn't materialized. Louise sounded composed and reasonable, but this was not the way it would be if they got close again. In spite of his wondering, in spite of his uncertainty, he could see they were no longer right for each other. The magic had leaked away slowly. Alistair wasn't the reason they'd finished. It was over before Alistair came on the scene. They'd stayed together for too long, for no good reason other than a bit of comfort, like a pair of shoes long overdue for replacement. Well done, Alistair, for turning up at the right time. And good luck for the future.

  "You're smiling," Louise said in surprise.

  "I want to say thanks. For everything." He moved forward and gave her a small hug.

  Louise pulled away, but not too quickly. "I'll drop a folder off at Ken's office if I can get anything useful. There's no need for you to call here."

  In other words, keep away. And she wouldn't come round to his place either. Not that he expected her to. Ken's office was neutral ground.

  "What's it all about?" she asked.

  "It's family business."

  She just nodded. He was glad he didn't have to explain. At the bottom of the marble staircase he turned to wave, but Louise had gone.

  He put his head round the door of the downstairs reception office as he left. The dragon still glowered.

  "Well?" she demanded.

  "Could you do something for me when Alistair gets back from his conference?"

  She looked stuffy and uptight. To her, Alistair was probably always known as Mister someone. "What do you want me to do?"

  "Give him a big kiss."

  "Mr. Rider!"

  "From me."

  Saint Somer, Pas-de-Calais, France

  Cher Monsieur Rider,

  Following the tragic incident at the construction site which falls within my district, I have found it necessary to talk to many of the older inhabitants in an attempt to unravel the past. This has given me the opportunity to ask about the woman you call Sophie Bernay.

  I believe that the person you wish to meet is now called Mme Sophie Boissant, who lived in the area until 1945. She was at that time known as Mlle Sophie Bernay and has since returned to take up residence here.

  You will understand my reservation at not passing her address directly on to you, since I do not know the purpose of your investigation. If you wish to get in touch with Mme Boissant by letter, I will be pleased to forward any correspondence.

  Accept my felicitations,

  Alain Oudet

  Mayor

  Matt read the letter three times before leaving for work. In his lunch break he wrote a long letter to Sophie, in French, and posted it to Mayor Oudet. Sophie was the crucial player in this puzzle. He was already beginning to wish he'd not contacted New York.

  New York

  THE PAPERS had reported the Dutchman's massacre in detail. It definitely sounded like the effects of Berlitzan oil. The project had surfaced like a bloated corpse at sea, like the rotting body he'd seen being pulled from the East River one fog-bound morning on his way to school.

  Frank Heinman sat uncomfortably in his favorite armchair in the Manhattan brownstone that had been the family home for three generations, and threw the file of newspaper cuttings onto the table. The rings in the picture were the DCI signet rings. One ring found by the mad Dutchman, and the other photographed on an old soldier's hand in England. The old soldier must be the Englishman with the Sten, the madman who had mutilated his father back in '44. He'd not known his name before. Alec Rider. Captain Alec Rider.

  As soon as he heard about the trouble in France, he knew what ha
d happened. Gold, a bad smell, and then anger. That treasure hunter had dug up one of the DCI gold cylinders of Berlitzan oil. The press wanted to find the owner of the ring and had started to look for someone with the initials DC. The "I" bit seemed to escape them. Perhaps it was too clever for the press. The rings were just a curiosity to the reporters, something for the silly season, and the story looked like it was dead already.

  He opened the envelope to read again the letter from Ingrid Rosestein at NATA. A PI called Matt Rider had written to her from an English detective agency.

  I am researching company history for a client ... My client particularly needs to discover if any members of the Heinman family died within this period ... any Heinmans from DCI serving in Europe during the war ... Do you know if DCI had a trading partner or subsidiary company operating in Germany during this period? ... chemicals for military use.

  Ms. Rosestein was telling him she thought he should be informed. Too damn right he should be! Matt Rider could be Alec Rider's grandson. They came from the same town, and one of these cuttings mentioned a grandson who was a PI. Just what the hell was going on?

  He stirred his cup as he stared at the portraits on the wall of the front room he now used as his office. Coffee slopped over the edge into the saucer. His right arm still had occasional spasms.

  "Miller!"

  The chief executive officer was over from DCI headquarters for his twice-weekly visit, going through a batch of financial papers that required the ex-president's approval.

  He pointed to a cutting from the English Sun newspaper. "Miller, see the gold rings in that photograph?"

  Miller came across and raised his eyebrows.

  "They're the DCI badges of office, Miller. The private symbols of DCI."

  "I didn't know." Miller sounded surprised. "Must have been a long time ago, Frank. There's not much to sign today, but we need to discuss some short-term investments."

  "I thought the design up. I was thirteen at the time." Frank felt an unexpected pride at the memory. "Father ordered two rings from Tiffany's."

  "And then you lost them?" Miller seemed more amused than puzzled. He put the papers on the table. "But you didn't reorder?"

  "Hell no!"

  Two DCI signet rings. One for his father's left hand, and the promise of the other ring as soon as they returned safely from France, four weeks before his twenty-first.

  Frank, my son, our trip to France to meet the Germans will be your best birthday present ever. It will form real character.

  His father had been right: the events in France were extremely formative. Helping an Englishman and a French girl mutilate your father beyond recognition had a profound effect on character.

  "Nineteen forty-four was a fateful year for DCI, Miller. We were taking a look at some poison gas -- for the Nazis."

  "I didn't know."

  "Of course you didn't. No one knows but me. But it's left the company with a small problem."

  "How small, Frank?"

  The CEO sounded like Skorensky with his weasel questions. "We weren't making it or anything. Hell no. The Nazis sent us a sample to look at. We threw it straight back at them. Naturally."

  Miller smiled but there was nothing reassuring about the smile. "Naturally, Frank. And I'm sure you're right, it will only be a small problem."

  Why did chief executive officers always have a smug way of answering questions, pretending they knew a lot more than they should? "It had better be small, Miller!" he retorted.

  Miller tipped his head back as though the ceiling would give inspiration. "Does Jason know about this?"

  "You just do as I tell you, Miller, and no more."

  Miller shook his head and drew his breath in sharply. "Your son has to be told, Frank. He's president of the company now."

  Jason had to be told all right, but he would probably say he was too busy with today's problems to get involved with the past. Company history had never been of interest to his son. There was a way to make sure of Jason's help -- if Hammid Aziz was prepared to co-operate. Hammid Aziz, the slippery arms dealer who had once crossed paths with DCI. Could the man be trusted? He touched his chin. Even the scar felt tender today, so strong were the memories.

  "Miller, there's a PI in England called Rider. It looks like he's cracked the meaning of those rings. His grandfather is in some sort of clinic, and the old fellow's been talking about a German missile site. God knows what the two of them could tell the press."

  Miller looked up sharply. "Maybe DCI is not so innocent?"

  "Miller, I need those rings. Modern Nazi hunters aren't fools."

  "And you're involved, Frank? Personally, I mean."

  "Hell, Miller, I reckon I am. The Americans would never forgive DCI if the truth got out."

  "Then I'll have to tell Jason immediately," insisted Miller. "If you'll excuse me saying it, Frank, you're not the president any longer."

  "No!" He banged the coffee table. "I want you to drop everything and go to England where Matt Rider is making himself a real pain in the ass. I want to know what sort of man he is. Look in the local journals. Ask around a bit. Let me know what people are saying. Find out if the press over there has lost interest yet. Got it!"

  Within twenty-four hours the CEO boarded the ageing DCI Gulfstream II, leaving Teterboro in New Jersey for Heathrow, England. He felt uneasy about the whole undertaking. Frank Heinman's son Jason, now the new president, should definitely have been told. Jason Heinman could get angry at times.

  Chapter 11

  England

  KEN HABGOOD pushed his leather captain's chair away from the desk as Matt entered the office. He was all smiles. "Come in here a minute, Matt. I want a little chat."

  It sounded like bad news. "What's happened, Ken?"

  "I don't suppose you know any American newspaper reporters?"

  "Personally?"

  Ken shrugged. He'd stopped smiling now. "An American called here earlier. He seemed to know you. I spotted he was a phony straight away."

  "What did he want?"

  "He asked a few questions about you and your family. Said he was doing a follow-up on your grandfather's story. I gave him your home address."

  "American? He wasn't called Heinman was he?" Louise was right; his inquiry had been flagged up with DCI.

  "Miller. I soon sent him packing."

  The name came as something of a relief. "Was he driving?"

  Ken's eyes lit up. "A big dark Ford, but he didn't park it here. Left it down the road by the shops."

  "And?"

  "He took off before I could get the registration number."

  "You said he asked questions."

  "Nothing important."

  Matt perched himself on the edge of Ken's bare desktop. "That letter I sent to New York could have been a mistake. I may have uncovered something big. And I mean big."

  "A wealthy client for us?" Ken pulled his red leather chair back to the desk, probably hearing the ring of cash registers. He motioned with his hand for Matt to stand up.

  Matt moved to lean against the wall. "There's no money in this, Ken. Not if my grandfather killed the wartime president of Domestic Chemicals."

  Ken sounded disappointed. "That's that then. If it all ends in tears, remember what I told you."

  "Not to mess with DCI." He was through with Ken's evasive sense of humor. "Did you say anything to Miller about the Heinmans or Domestic Chemicals?"

  "Nothing."

  It dawned on Matt what Ken had just said. "You gave him my home address?"

  "Of course I didn't. I was just winding you up. I kept my mouth zipped. Miller didn't act like a reporter. His questions weren't persistent enough. He seemed uncomfortable. Funny thing is, he did ask if I knew anyone called Sophie Bernay."

  "Sophie Bernay?"

  "Calm down, kiddo. He'd seen her name in the local rag. I said I'd never heard of her. Anyway, I told him you were going to France and wouldn't be around to answer any questions."

  "Really?"
r />   "Really."

  "Thanks, Ken, that's just what I needed."

  Ken seemed anxious to avoid any further embarrassment. "Have you thought about taking Zoé with you? You two seem to be getting on well. You could call and see her folk. Get your feet under the table."

  "I think someone called Florian has already got his feet under the table, and Zoé isn't coming with me. But thanks for your interest."

  "There's no need to be so touchy, kiddo. So your relationship is purely platonic?"

  "I don't expect you to believe it," Matt said. "And there wouldn't be time to meet Zoé's people, even if she invited me. She comes from the Auvergne, and that's a long way down France." He'd only been there once. It was the last family holiday, before his parents finally split. They had argued and fought all the way down through France. He would have been nine or ten at the time. On the way back they made a detour through the high central area scattered with the remains of over a hundred extinct volcanoes. The thought that there might be prehistoric monsters around every turn had almost made the journey bearable.

  "Anywhere's a long way in your orange wreck, kiddo."

  Matt came forward and stood with his hands on the desk. "The orange wreck, as you call it, was thrown at me by one of your generous clients when mine got smashed in the line of duty. I can't afford another, so I'm putting up with it. The engine's good, someone's fitted twin carbs, and so far it hasn't let me down. No electronic this and electronic that to go wrong. Just basic engineering. And a basic ride."

  "Rather you than me," grinned Ken. "I like a bit of comfort."

  Matt felt niggled. "So do I, but I'm not getting it. Even the sunshine roof drips water on my head."

  "But only when it rains. You've got to think positive, kiddo."

  "I'm positive. I'm the one getting wet. And next time anyone comes here asking questions, tell them you've never heard of me. Okay?"

  *

  MILTON MILLER knew his first mistake had been to overestimate the friendliness of English PIs. Received politely at Habgood Securities, he'd quickly realized he would learn nothing useful from the man in charge. He wasn't even given the opportunity to meet Matt Rider.

  His second mistake was phoning the ex-president to tell him about the abortive visit.

  "I thought you'd want to know what's been happening in England, Frank ... Yes, sure, this Matt Rider, he's off to France soon.... No, I don't know why. Hey, and there's a blonde woman mixed up in it somewhere. She's called Sophie Bernay. I got that from a back issue of their local journal. The Habgood guy was like a clam. I can't see why you're ... Yes, sure I'll email you some notes tonight."