"And Hannes?"
"I'm telling him tonight."
Zandra shook her head in disbelief. "You really are Kurt Weill's Jenny. You know—poor Jenny? The one who couldn't make up her mind?"
"Oh, let's change the subject," Kenzie pleaded, "please?"
"If you like. Anyway, I was wanting to ask you something. Now, honestly. What would you say to being a godmother?"
Kenzie stared, her jaw dropping. "Can you fly that by me again?"
"I'm asking you to be godmother to my very own little serene bundle of joy."
"Why, I ... I'd be delighted! And honored!"
"Oh, I'm so glad. That's taken care of, then. Now, about the rest of your sandwich ...?"
"Have it."
"You're sure?"
" 'Course I'm sure." Kenzie laughed. "After all, I have a vested interest. Got to make certain my godchild grows up strong and healthy!"
"You're a darling! Really, I'll love you for absolutely ever and ever." Zandra attacked the remains of the sandwich. "As will little Ernst-Albrecht," she added.
"Ernst ... Albrecht?"
"Mmm ... hmm." Zandra patted her belly. "Ernst-Albrecht Rudger Gregorious Baldur Engelbert Burchard Georg Lorenzo Rainer-Maria von und zu Engelwiesen. That is," she added, "if he's a boy."
"And a godmother has to remember all that? And in order?"
"I should hope so!"
"Holy shit! You'd better write it down so I can start memorizing it. But I don't have to call him that tongue-twisting mouthful all the time, do I? I mean, a simple Ernie or Al will do? Won't it?"
"Not All." Zandra shook a finger back and forth. "Never All. But Albie ... perhaps."
"After the auction? Of course that's fine with me," Hannes said. "But why specifically then, Kenzie?"
They were taking time out to savor the lulling, satiated feeling of postcoital bliss.
"Oh, I don't know."
Kenzie freed herself of the tangle of rumpled bed linens, took a sip of Veuve Clicquot, set the glass on the nightstand, and cuddled against him, the back of her head resting on his chest.
"I suppose," she said thoughtfully, gazing up at the dim ceiling, "it's a time point. You know. A landmark of sorts? Like New Year's or something? The end of one juncture, the beginning of another? Don't ask me why, but in some strange sort of way, it just seems to make sense."
He kissed the top of her head and wrapped his warm arms around her.
"Hannes ..."
"Yes, Kenzie?"
"If I should decide upon Charley, you ... you wouldn't hurt him, would you?"
"Really, Kenzie," he chuckled. "What makes you think I would do something like that?"
"Nothing. I'm being silly, that's all. Forget it."
She twisted around and changed position, lying on her side so she could see his profile.
"I mean, I'm hardly the femme-fatale type." She laughed softly at the notion.
He rolled his head sideways on the pillow to look at her. "Then what type are you, my love?"
She shrugged. "I've never really thought about it." Her eyes seemed fastened to his. "Just your garden variety, ail-American girl next door, I suppose."
"No, Kenzie." He shook his head and smiled. "I don't think you are that ordinary at all."
"Then what do you think I am?"
"The right woman for me," Hannes said softly.
Chapter 60
BURGHLEY'S
FOUNDED 1719
requests the pleasure of your company
on November 11
at 6:00 P.M.
in the Madison Avenue Galleries
for an auction of
Rare and Important Old Master Paintings
from the Estate of the Duquesa
Rebecca Cornille Wakefield Lantzouni de la Vila
R.S.V.P. Invitation Only Black Tie
One thousand invitations, engraved on the heaviest, pure cotton stock and affixed with an oxblood silk bow, were mailed out on the fifteenth of October.
Hand-addressed in beautiful calligraphy, the addresses had been culled by computer and included the cream of the world's richest, most powerful, and socially prominent citizens (500 of them), the most highly recognized celebrities (50), Burghley's top spenders (390), the world's leading authorities on Old Masters (15), and the directors of the world's leading museums (45).
Naturally, a few macabre glitches were bound to develop—and did. For instance, Becky V was mailed an invitation, since she had yet to be deleted from the computer files. And Karl-Heinz's father^ the old prince, received one, too—despite languishing in an irreversible coma.
But no matter. Around the world, the invitations were being delivered to the powerful, the privileged, and the chosen few:
The sultan of an oil-rich emirate was brought his on a solid gold salver along with his Coca-Cola, which was specially bottled for him in silvered glass.
"Oh, my pet, my pet," he told his favorite young boy of the moment. "I am going to show you New York ..."
In Beverly Hills, the world's most famous screen actress squealed with delight when she opened hers in the swimming pool.
She smiled at her sweetie pies—her sixth husband, lounging on the chaise, and her six Lhasa Apsos, which ran around yapping up a storm.
"See whose private jet we can borrow," she said to her secretary. "And let's see, we'll need enough suites at the Waldorf Towers for the usual entourage ..."
In Boca Raton, A. Dietrich Spotts ran his hand over the coveted invitation and smiled.
I wondered when it would come, he thought, making a mental note to call the airlines for reservations, and Burghley's to RSVP. This is one occasion I wouldn't miss for anything.
Dina Goldsmith couldn't help herself. Sitting on the sidelines never had been her style, nor would it ever be. To the chagrin of everyone at Burghley's—and Sheldon D. Fairey in particular—she threw herself into the midst of the whirlwind. And with a vengeance.
Before anyone realized what had happened, she was in charge. Orchestrating every phase of the Becky V auction.
If the atmosphere at Burghley's was tense before Dina's involvement, it now became as deadly as the inside of a pressure cooker. There were a thousand and one things to be done, and a limited amount of time in which to accomplish it all.
And Dina was damned if she would permit anything to slide.
She encouraged and cajoled, threatened and gave ultimatums.
It was she who made all the final decisions. She who rewrote the press releases. She who fielded a hundred calls a day, attended the sales conferences, came up with suggestions, and approved the advertisements. And it was she, also, who demanded changes in the catalogue proofs. She, who when there were problems shipping Becky's paintings out of France, saw to it that the necessary documents were rushed through. She, who when a lost crate from Palm Beach needed tracking down, or damaged canvases required quick restoration, made certain immediate results would be forthcoming.
Somehow, she seemed to be everywhere at once, and employees began looking over their shoulders before grumbling among themselves.
Not surprisingly, Dina managed to step on more than a few toes. When complaints reached Robert, he decided to have a talk with her.
"I don't know why ya had to get involved with this shit," he grumped. "Ain't ya got enough to keep ya busy?"
"Of course I do, sweetie," she cooed, throwing her arms around his neck. "But I have to make certain this auction goes purr-fectly. Who else has Daddy's best interests at heart?"
Who indeed?
Overnight Dina had become an awesome force to be reckoned with. Naturally, she had the final say regarding those coveted last- minute invitations.
As soon as word of that leaked out, "friends" she never knew suddenly popped out of the woodwork.
People tried to wine and dine her. They offered to put private jets and yachts at her disposal. They showered her with expensive gifts.
Several big name fashion designers went so far as to p
romise her free, unlimited wardrobes in exchange for an invitation.
To Dina's credit, she returned each gift and graciously refused every offer. It was easy. Because, for once in her life she did not want presents. She did not need bribes. The only thing that really mattered was that she was courted; that the offers were made so that she could reject them.
Dina soon proved that she had a genuine aptitude for organization. True, she still had her share of detractors, but she was also a powerhouse who knew how to get things done. Employees quickly learned that the surest way to cut through red tape was by going to her.
Slowly but surely, Dina was gaining respect among the various echelons.
Robert still received complaints, but they slowed to a trickle. One thing, however, did not escape his notice—the lack of bills. Unbelievable as it seemed, his wife was suddenly too busy to go shopping, a fact which delighted him.
If this would only keep up, he thought wistfully. And then it hit him. There was a way.
No fool, he knew better than to approach Dina with his suggestions. She'd sniff a rat instantly. Wisely, he put a bug into Gaby's ear instead.
"You know what you should be doing?" Gaby suggested to Dina the following day.
"What, sweetie?"
"Putting all this energy of yours into charitable projects."
"What do you think I'm doing?" Dina retorted. "I'm not on the payroll, and the entire proceeds of the sale go to charity!"
"I meant after this is all over."
"Hmm," Dina said slowly.
Gaby might be onto something, she thought. It could prove to be fun. And at least it wouldn't be boring.
"Perhaps I shall," she said. "I'll have to think it over carefully."
Meanwhile, the date of the sale loomed ever closer, and an overwhelming amount of things still needed to be done.
Dina saw to it that they were.
On time.
And to her own discriminating standards.
For when Dina Goldsmith spoke, people listened—and jumped.
Or else!
Chapter 61
Gerhard Meindl was waiting on the other side of customs in the International Arrivals terminal at Kennedy Airport. When he saw them coming, he adjusted his somber gray tie. Then he took a deep breath and strode toward them.
"Welcome to America, Your Highnesses," he said in German. "I trust your flight was pleasant?"
"It was dreadful," sniffed Princess Sofia. "Nowadays they let anyone aboard a commercial plane! Even in first class you find yourself seated next to the most horrid people. The most hideous young couple was across the aisle. Both with rings through their lips and noses and eyebrows. Disgusting!" She threw up her hands. "It really does make one yearn for the good old days. Isn't that right, Erwein?"
"Ja, Sofia," he said, with weary resignation. He was just behind her, carrying her jewelry and cosmetics cases. Behind him, three porters were wheeling mountains of vintage Vuitton luggage.
"Next time," Sofia added, "we're taking the family jet."
Gerhard Meindl nodded sympathetically; he knew why they hadn't this time—Sofia didn't wish to forewarn her brother of her arrival.
"The car is this way," he said smoothly, and gesturing with one hand, led the entourage toward the automatic glass doors and out into the sunshine. "Ah, there it is."
Sofia eyed the silver gray stretch limousine with disgust. What an abomination! she thought, comparing it to her own stately old Daimler. It was like everything else here in America. The few times she had visited this country, the sheer crassness of everything had simply overwhelmed her. Now it was overwhelming her again—and she hadn't even left the airport!
She glared at the porters who were depositing her luggage none-too- gently in the trunk.
"Tip them, Erwein," she snapped. "But not too much?" She raised her eyebrows.
"Nein, Sofia."
She ducked into the car and waited for it to be loaded up. Extracted a gold compact from her handbag and dusted her face with powder.
"You made our reservations?" she asked, once they were rolling.
Gerhard Meindl, seated on the jump seat, nodded his head. "Yes, Your Highness," he assured her. "A two-bedroom suite at the Carlyle, just as you requested. I inspected it personally. I think you will find it quite satisfactory."
"If I do not, you and the management will hear of it."
I'm sure we will, he thought.
She eyed Erwein, who was seated beside her, with mounting irritation. He had both of her cases on his lap, as though clutching them from invisible thieves.
"Oh, do put them down!" she snapped.
He did; at once.
"Did you decide how long you would be staying in New York, Your Highness?" Gerhard Meindl asked solicitously.
"We came for the auction," Sofia said, "but we will stay until the child is born. That way, I can rest assured that nothing about the birth is shady or contrary to family law."
It was a direct insult to the Meindls, a deliberate slap in the face, but Gerhard kept his emotions carefully in check. "And the old prince? How is His Highness, if I may ask?"
"You may, and he is not at all well," Sofia said, her lips settling into a satisfied expression. "He had another stroke last week."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Yes," said Sofia slowly, "I don't doubt that you are."
Dina marched to the entrance of Burghley's, Gaby half a step behind. All that was missing were drums and trumpets to announce their arrival—to Gaby, it would have sounded like the lead-in accompanying a Twentieth Century Fox film logo.
"Morning, Mrs. Goldsmith." The doorman.
"Good morning, Raoul."
"Lovely day, isn't it?"
"Why ..." Dina stopped in the doorway and turned around, looking up at the sky in surprise. "Why, yes, Raoul. I suppose it is!"
And in she swept, Gaby in tow.
"Damn brownnoser," Gaby mumbled under her breath, spiking him with a glare.
Raoul grinned and touched his visor. "And a nice day to you, too, Ms. Morton."
Gaby scowled. "That and two quarters buys you a cuppa coffee."
"Good morning, Mrs. Goldsmith," the security guard greeted.
"Good morning, Carmine. I see you're looking sharp."
Passing him, Gaby pointed at his shoes. When he looked down, she quickly tweaked his cheek.
On they marched, to the sound of Gaby's silent drum and trumpet flourishes.
First on Dina's agenda: The showroom galleries, where the last exhibit before the Becky V auction—Impressionist and Modern Paintings, Drawings, Watercolors and Sculpture—was being taken down.
Next stop: The auction gallery proper, where the theaterlike red velvet seats, which she had insisted upon last October (A year? Can it really have been that long?) curved in elegant amphitheater-type rows.
A vast improvement over those cheap metal folding chairs, Dina thought, even if I say so myself.
Suddenly she stopped walking and stood there, frozen. "What the hell?" she said softly.
Then, charging up and down the center aisle, she pointed an accusing finger left and right in outrage. There and there and there ... there, there there ... The upholstery of fifteen red velvet fold-down seats had been slashed open, exposing the white stuffing and springs.
"Vandals!" Dina exclaimed. "My God! Vandals in Burghley's! What is the world coming to?"
She marched furiously back out, her face grim, and sought out the nearest security guard.
"Ma'am?"
"Who permitted someone to vandalize the seats in the auction gallery?" Dina snapped.
"Beg your pardon, ma'am?"
"Call the head of Security. Tell him to meet me in Sheldon D. Fairey's office. Now."
"Yes, ma'am!"
"Gaby?"
"Right here."
"See that the damaged seats are removed and reupholstered. At once."
"Will do."
"Make sure the fabric matches!"
"Right."
"And call those two detectives. You know the ones. I want this reported at once."
He watched the slashed seats being loaded into the panel truck, CHANTILLY & CIE CUSTOM UPHOLSTERERS was emblazoned on the sides of the vehicle, along with a Long Island City address and a 718 phone number. He memorized both.
It was so ludicrously simple. Child's play, really. Just one of many security gaps, and not even a highly original one at that.
People would do well to remember the classics, he thought. It was the story of the Trojan Horse all over again, but with a slight variation. When the seats returned, they would be stuffed with goodies. Explosives, semi- automatics, handguns, ammo.
So simple.
So ancient.
So beautiful.
So deadly.
He could hardly wait.
TARGET:
BURGHLEY'S
COUNTDOWN
TO TERROR
Near Wilmington, Delaware, November 7
"Ninety-four hours and eighteen minutes until zero hour."
The hooded figure's electronically distorted voice echoed eerily in cavernous space.
The old pesticide packaging plant on the banks of the stagnant, polluted canal—like the idle buildings surrounding it—was a relic of a reckless past, and thus ideal. This was the fourth industrial space they had occupied since Long Island City.
There was survival in unpredictability, safety in staying on the move.
As usual, all the lights save one had been doused for his arrival. The single naked bulb glared, swinging in an arc from its overhead wire, and threw shadow monsters against pitted cinderblock walls.
From between the slit in his convex lenses, he eyed his handpicked crew. With Kildare out of the way, that left eight men and one woman.
"Everything is in readiness?"
"Everything." The former Israeli commando.
"Weapons? Explosives?"
Too Damn Rich Page 61
