The hostess came down the aisle. 'Please fasten your seat belt, Fraulein,' she said, leaning forward. 'We're approaching Koln-Bonn airport.'
Hélène turned away from the window, fastened her seat belt, and stared straight ahead. Once again, she was returning to Cologne. But this time it was different. The other trips were merely to make the arrangements that would culminate in this one visit for which she had waited so long. The moment she would face Karl von Eiderfeld. The destroyer. The butcher. The white-faced one who had filled her with such terror that sometimes she still had nightmares about him. It had been more than fourteen years since she had first laid eyes on his hideous face. Fourteen years was a long time to wait for anything, but now she was ready.
She rolled her head to one side of the headrest. She had chosen a most exquisite and fitting form of punishment. He, too, would have to buy into Les Editions Hélène Junot; just as Hubert had had to. But this time the terms would be different. When Paul Clermont drew up the papers, he had thought the terms bizarre. But he hadn't known what she was up to.
Hélène smiled slowly. Von Eiderfeld's punishment was going to suit his crimes. She was going to prey on his greatest fear. The fear of discovery. The fear of having an accusing finger pointed at him. Well, she wouldn't be the one who'd point that finger. She would allow him to remain burrowed in his paranoid seclusion. Except, that is, for four times each year. Once every three months he would have to attend a board meeting. Otherwise, he could come and go as he wanted. But for her board meetings, the rules were stringent. She stipulated in writing (and he would have no choice but to agree to her terms, unless he wanted her to go to the Israeli authorities) that he must use second-class public transportation to get there. He could use his choice of scheduled airlines, scheduled railroads, scheduled buses. But he could not go by private or rented car, could not, in fact, charter anything—plane or bus—not even hide in a wagon-lit on a train, nor even use a taxi. Ship's travel, too, was strictly forbidden, for ships were like floating hotels. It was too easy to lock yourself up in your cabin. No, for her meetings Karl von Eiderfeld would have to travel openly with that which he feared most: crowds. She had even mapped out his airplane routes carefully. Frankfurt- Tel Aviv-Paris. Paris-Tel Aviv-Frankfurt. It was a big detour, but it wouldn't hurt him to have to set foot on Israeli soil and deal with Jewish officials every now and then, she thought. In fact, that would probably frighten him the most. Customs officials were enough to unnerve anybody. Especially somebody with something to hide.
Yes, the danger of discovery would be an all-consuming threat. Albinos were a rarity. They attracted attention and weren't easily forgotten. And somewhere, sometime, a survivor of his brutalities would put the finger on him. If not in Paris, then perhaps in Tel Aviv. Sooner or later it was bound to happen.
She nodded to herself. The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. She didn't feel proud of what she was doing, but she didn't feel ashamed of herself, either. She believed that this time, what she was doing was truly the right thing. And this time, the severity of the punishment she meted out verged on genius. Von Eiderfeld wouldn't be able to slide through with a splashy, quick trial and then feel the hangman's noose around his neck. For then, all his suffering would cease. Dead men didn't feel anything.
No, she would make certain that before that happened, he would suffer first. Slowly. Painfully. For as long as it took his past to catch up with him. Especially with such stipulations as the one which specifically stated that he could not undergo cosmetic surgery of any kind. Or the one that forbade travel under any name but his own. There was even a clause that he could not wear hats of any kind during his trips, and only those eyeglasses which were absolutely necessary and whose lenses were each no larger than six and a half square centimeters. This way, disguises of any kind were out of the question.
A grim smile tightened across her teeth. Four times a year, the fear-ridden fox would be flushed from his hole. Four times a year was enough. Between each meeting, he would have ninety days to worry about the next one.
She started as the wheels of the plane touched down on the tarmac and the fuselage gave a shudder. She straightened in her seat and looked out again. The flaps on the wings were in a vertical position. And in the distance was the terminal, surrounded by planes like a mother nursing her litter. They were already taxiing toward it. She could see the black-yellow-and-red-striped German flag that had replaced the ominous swastika banner of the war years. It was surrounded by smaller flags of many nations fluttering festively in the breeze. Now it wouldn't be long. The showdown was at hand. Only a short drive away waited Düsseldorf and Karl von Eiderfeld.
Karl Haberle was waiting for her inside the terminal. 'Welcome back to Germany,' he said in French, raising his voice above the noise of the crowds and the echoes of the loudspeaker system.
She smiled. 'I hope I'm not imposing,' she said carefully in German. 'It's just that I don't know anyone else here.'
'You're not imposing at all,' he assured her politely, also in German. 'I hope you'll forgive me, but I didn't arrange for a car and driver as you requested. If you don't mind, I'd like the pleasure of being at your service.'
She smiled gratefully and slipped her arm through his. 'Thank you, I like that. Now we'd better switch back to French.' She laughed as she changed languages. 'I'm afraid I still have much to learn.'
'On the contrary. You speak it very well. And your pronunciation is excellent.'
She was pleased. She didn't bother to tell him that she was simultaneously learning English and Italian as well. She had figured that it was high time. Now that Les Modes had foreign distribution channels—if not foreign editions themselves, yet—it wouldn't hurt to be multilingual. Surprisingly, learning all the languages at the same time posed no problem for her. Instinctively she grasped the meanings of words and mastered the syntax and grammar of each language. She never once mixed Italian words into an English conversation, or French ones into German.
'I've got a new car,' Haberle said offhandedly as they walked to the parking lot. 'Thanks to your generosity, my tired little Opel could finally be retired.'
She looked at him. 'And you bought a Mercedes,' she said slyly.
He laughed. 'And I bought a Mercedes.'
Hélène held her breath and hesitated. Slowly she swung her legs out of the silver-gray car and stepped out, staring thoughtfully up at the tall building that threw its shadow full force across the parking lot. Absently she pushed the car door shut. The parking lot was in the midst of an expanse of hardened, frost-touched earth that had been graded but not yet landscaped. Only the building, the road, and the parking lots had been completed. The rest looked like a lunar landscape, ugly, barren, and brown. There was an enormous industrial complex a kilometer away; like an expanding, misshapen hydra that had spawned a mind-boggling array of offspring, it sprawled hideous, twisted, and complicated beyond belief. Behind it were the huge chemical tanks, like bloated silver bellies, and from the midst of it all rose the tall chimneys that spewed forth eternal flames. As if the fires of hell had burst through the earth, she thought. A grotesque place, perfectly suited to the man she had come to see.
Karl von Eiderfeld turned away from the expanse of tinted windows and went back behind his desk. Wearily he lowered himself into the teak-and- leather chair. Several minutes ago the guards at the main gate had called to notify him that Madame Kowalsky had arrived. He had made it a point to watch her car pull up in the parking lot below. From fifteen stories up, all he could see was a man and what appeared to be a slim, attractive woman. Nothing more. Not that he had hoped to recognize her from this distance. He knew better than that. But he prided himself on his photographic memory. He could remember faces from years ago, even connect them with names.
A knifelike pain shot through his chest. His lips tightened as he touched his ribs with his hand. He knew what that pain was. His heart.
He reached into his desk drawer and took out a gold-and-enamel
pillbox that had once belonged to the Czar of Russia. He didn't give the exquisite Faberge workmanship a single glance. Quickly his fingers sought the catch and snapped it open. Inside were several minuscule pills. He popped one into his mouth and dry-swallowed it. Then he put the box away.
His heart had been acting up regularly ever since the afternoon his lawyers had forwarded the cryptic portion of an old document. Even before he opened it, he had had a terrible premonition of what was inside. The power to destroy him and all that which was his. Just when he had almost begun to believe that he had finally left his past entirely behind him. That there was nothing now that would surface. And why should it? During the war, he had been careful. Unlike most Germans, he had been a realist. He had accepted the fact that either side could win the war. And before 1943 was over, it was obvious to him that the Germans were losing. That was when he had begun rerouting shipments of propane to his secret depots and destroying the shipping forms. That was when he had seen to it that anyone who had witnessed him giving orders that he might later regret had been promptly shipped to the camps. Could anyone have survived that fate? In the beginning he had doubted it. But when the war was over, it became clear that unthinkable blunders had been made. Survivors had begun to straggle to the surface, picking out one war 'criminal' after another, many of them men he had once known and marched beside. Most of them were brought to trial; a few had managed to commit suicide first. The newspapers had been full of their stories in the beginning; then they steadily dwindled, until after a while it was only a few highly publicized cases a year. Finally the public grew weary of them.
As the years passed, he had begun to sleep better. Whatever ax had descended upon the others had missed him, and for a good reason. Unlike them, he had covered his tracks well. At least that was what he liked to believe. Nor had he ever flaunted himself. Not during the war and not after. Even now, hardly anyone had ever seen or heard of him, and no one questioned his seclusion or connected it to 'atrocities.' All people ever heard of was Von Eiderfeld Industrien, G.m.b.H; never anything about Karl von Eiderfeld himself. Millionaire recluses never raised suspicions.
After receiving the cryptic portion of the document, he had spent whole days and nights racking his brain. He had tried to remember who might have escaped the execution he had planned, who might have gotten hold of the incriminating document. Who was this mysterious Madame Kowalsky, and why had she sent that message? To gain access to see him, of course. But that was strange, too. For she herself was coming, not the police or the Israelis. Was it blackmail she was after?
He buried his bloodless face in his white hands. For so long now, everything had been going well. He had prospered more than he had ever hoped. He had climbed to unimaginable heights of wealth and power. Yearly, six million barrels of crude oil passed through his refineries. Millions of tons of steel were being poured in his mills. His coal and iron mines were thriving. And his shipyard in Kiel was already producing seven new tankers every fifteen months. Now, all this was threatened. Everything he had built could fall like a house of cards if Madame Kowalsky took a deep breath and blew on it.
He pushed down on a white button recessed in his lacquered desk. Ahead of him, a portion of the highly polished teak wall slid soundlessly aside, exposing a large television screen. He pushed down on the blue button and a bluish light came on within the gray screen. A moment later he had a flickering view of the inside of the elevator. There were a man and a woman. The man was German; that much he could tell. His lips, his hairstyle, his facial structure, and the cut of his clothes gave him away. But the woman was young and beautiful, expensively dressed. Her clothes were obviously Paris couture. He had never seen her before. And if he had, she must have been a child at the time. She could only be in her early twenties.
A child. He froze, cursing his stupidity. The blue face on the screen seemed to be mocking him. Angrily he pushed down on the third button. The red one. The picture faded slowly and the wall slid shut again.
His eyes narrowed in memory. He had slipped up only once—when he had let those two French children go. He should have had them killed.
Now he knew who she was.
Hélène had noticed the camera lens in the elevator the moment they stepped inside. But it was only after the car began to move that she had the feeling they were being watched. She glanced up into the thick glass lens that was focused on them. She could feel him now. Von Eiderfeld was watching. Waiting.
When she was shown into the hushed silence of his office, von Eiderfeld looked up slowly. His hands were folded on the desktop and his hooded pink eyes were guarded. She turned her face and smiled automatically at the secretary. The instant the door closed, her smile dropped away. She turned back around and for a long moment locked eyes with von Eiderfeld.
She shuddered and tightened her grip on the attaché case. He looked older than she'd imagined.
He waved his thin hand elegantly, his voice soft and emotionless. 'Be seated, Fraulein Junot.'
How could he possibly have known who Madame Kowalsky was? she wondered. Then she threw the thought away. It really didn't matter. 'I prefer to stand,' she replied coldly.
'As you wish.'
Her eyes moved slowly around the elegant but sterile office. She forced her face to remain impassive as she took in the nightmarish Max Ernst canvases. They were very appropriate. Only a truly twisted mind could appreciate them.
'You have built quite an impressive empire,' she said quietly.
He gave a modest shrug of his narrow shoulders. 'It is not that difficult when one works hard.'
'Or when one has no distractions and can do nothing but lock oneself away and work.'
He looked at her calmly. The fire within his eyes seemed to dim. 'What is it you want of me?'
She put her attaché case down on one of the modular units and snapped it open. 'I, too, have begun an empire of sorts,' she said, taking out several issues of Les Modes. She handed them to him.
He glanced quickly at them, and then, looking slightly puzzled, put them down on his desk. 'I am afraid that fashion holds little appeal for me,' he said. He folded his hands again, waiting for her to continue.
'It should,' she said after a moment. 'You see, I am selling stock in my corporation, Herr von Eiderfeld. Ten percent of that stock will cost you one million francs.'
Von Eiderfeld looked relieved. Blackmail, by whatever name, was something he could understand. 'Your company is in financial difficulties, then?'
She permitted herself a low laugh. 'Quite the opposite.'
'Then why is it you are selling stock?'
Hélène was silent. She reached for a thick envelope, undid the flap, and dumped the contents out on the desktop. His face was still expressionless as he looked down at the glossy black-and-white photographs, but his mind was racing. He had thought that she had somehow managed to get hold of one document. But these! There were so many. Gott im Himmel! Was so much incriminating evidence still floating around? Silently he cursed the Reich. No wonder they had lost the war! The bungling idiots in Berlin hadn't even had the sense to burn the archives.
But he betrayed none of these thoughts. His face was a studious mask. 'One million francs is a small price for these,' he said softly.
She shrugged. 'It's not a small price,' she said, 'it's the fair market price.'
His pink eyes narrowed suspiciously; this was no ordinary blackmailer he was dealing with. She wanted something else besides money.
She reached into the attaché case again and took out a thick document bound in a light blue folder. 'Here it is. Your copy of the stock offering. I suggest you read it through very carefully before you sign.'
Something in her voice set off warning bells. He gave her a sharp look but said nothing as he took it from her.
She continued. 'Need I mention that the lawyer who contacted you for this meeting is not the same one who has the originals of your documents? Or what will happen if any harm comes to me?'
He tapped the folder in his hand. 'Let me ask you a hypothetical question.'
She said nothing.
'If I were to purchase these . . . these shares. Then would I get the originals of the documents?'
Hélène shook her head. 'I'm afraid not, Herr von Eiderfeld. You see, they are my insurance for a long and healthy lifespan. Do go ahead and read the contract.'
'It's a long document,' he said. 'It will take time to read.'
'I have time.' She indulged herself in a smile and took a seat in front of his desk.
He sighed, opened the folder to the first page, and began to read. It was not long before he sat up straight. His white face seemed even whiter than before. 'Th-this is preposterous!' he sputtered suddenly. 'You don't really expect me to agree to such ludicrous terms!' Disgustedly he flung the document across the room.
Hélène looked over at it, then back at him. Patiently she got up, retrieved it, and placed it on his desk. She sat down again. 'Yes, Herr von Eiderfeld,' she said softly between clenched teeth. 'I expect you to agree to all these terms. And no, this is not preposterous. What happened to my family was preposterous. Four children fleeing Paris with the Nazis on their tail was preposterous. A baby burned in the belly—that was preposterous. My mother gassed at Auschwitz—that, too, Herr von Eiderfeld, was preposterous.'
He made an irritable gesture. 'How would you know where she was sent?' he mumbled halfheartedly. 'You were not even there.'
'My mother told another survivor, who in turn told me. The camps were one giant grapevine—you should know that. Many people told others their stories in the hopes that when it was all over, the world would hear the truth.'
'The truth!' he spat out venomously. 'Speculation and hearsay, that's all it is!'
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