Personally, he despised the north of Africa—all of Africa, for that matter. It was too filthy. There were too many verdammte flies. Worse, the whole continent was filled with an inferior race. As if that wasn't bad enough in itself, half the natives seemed to be missing something. Eyes. Ears. Noses. Limbs. He shook his head. Nor could his sensitive eyes take the harsh desert sun, the blinding glare of the whitewashed houses. He always stayed indoors in Marrakesh, never venturing farther during daylight hours than the cool, shady loggia.
But Helga liked the hot North African winters. She loved the Olympic-size swimming pool she had persuaded him to build at the villa.
He shook his head fondly and his white face broke into an unaccustomed smile. When he had met Helga Recknagel, she was a minor legend in Germany. She had brought a feeling of national pride to the degrading postwar years. At the 1956 Olympics in Melbourne, she had won a silver medal for the 400-meter freestyle swim event. She had clocked in at 4:55.9. Her face had been plastered in all the German newspapers and on the magazine covers. On her return from Australia, she had been met at the Bonn-Koln airport by a weeping mob. Die Heilige Helga, they called her. The Saintly Helga.
Unknown to everyone but him, Helga Recknagel had been born in 1936 in the first of the Lebensborn maternity homes. These were Heinrich Himmler's pet project, institutions he had set up in order to increase Germany's birth rate. Helga's mother was one of many women encouraged by the state to have an illegitimate child by an SS officer. Dutifully she had spread her legs for the Reich, let pure Aryan seed enter into her, and nine months later pushed an Aryan child out of her womb. At the Lebensborn home, with its large picture of the Fuhrer in the lobby, both mother and daughter led a comfortable life.
Three weeks after they met, Karl von Eiderfeld married Helga Recknagel. In her he found everything he was looking for in a woman. She was a pure-blooded Aryan. Her father had been an SS officer. She was sturdy, strong, and had brought honor to her country. They honeymooned briefly on the Chiemsee in Bavaria and then he had begun building their family.
He glanced at the two smaller silver frames flanking Helga's oval portrait. Rolf and Otto. His sons.
Helga had wanted to have children, but he had refused. It had been the only major fight they had ever had. He had been afraid that the children would be born albino. He still believed in the pure Aryan ideal, and he despised himself for his own lack of physical perfection. So they had compromised. He and Helga had scoured the adoption agencies for a nice blond boy.
What they found were two boys, orphaned brothers. Actually, they had
wanted a much younger child, but the boys had looked like Aryan ideals. Rolf was now twenty-three, Otto twenty-eight. They had been good-looking boys when they had been adopted, and they still were.
Otto had always been tough and unsmiling. He was very fair, with pale eyes, sensual lips, and a stern, almost judicious expression. Already Otto was embarked on a promising political career. The Christian Democrats were beginning to take notice of him as one of their future strengths, the Social Democrats as a formidable future opponent. A high position in the Bundestag was not out of the question. Who knew? In time, perhaps, Otto von Eiderfeld might even become chancellor.
Rolf had always been the prankster, the one with the sense of humor. But suddenly, almost overnight, the boy inside him had disappeared and a hardness had taken its place. Von Eiderfeld had been surprised but pleased by this change in his son. He could pinpoint the exact moment when it had occurred. The day of Rolf's first job in the family business. . .with the knowledge that he was being groomed as the heir to Von Eiderfeld Industrien G.m.b.H. Already he was surprising von Eiderfeld with his keen business acumen. His toughness when it came to dealing with hardened competitors. His German efficiency. Von Eiderfeld Industrien was assured of its future with Rolf at the helm.
The only thing that rankled von Eiderfeld about the boys was that they were not of his flesh. Not of his blood. But he never mentioned this. He consoled himself that with the boys, everything he had built would continue to prosper. At least the von Eiderfeld name would continue on for generations. Rolf's young wife, Monika, was already pregnant.
He sighed sadly, folded his old white hands, and looked down at them. There was no doubt but that the boys were going to surpass the parent. Of course, they had a head start. Von Eiderfeld Industrien had already been a very powerful corporation by the time they arrived on the scene. But the boys were brilliant. They would go far. In fact, either one of them was probably far better equipped for dealing with Hélène Junot than he was. But he couldn't divulge his past to them. Even Helga didn't know about it. She suspected, yes, but she never said a word. She loved him. She was devoted to him. She was German. She understood.
He sighed again. The incriminating evidence Hélène Junot had collected was burned. But was there more? If one person could get hold of such documents, couldn't someone else dig some up also? After all, the Reich had been one massive bureaucracy. Many documents had been destroyed, but far too many had survived. And what about human survivors? Millions had died in the camps—he alone had sent hundreds of thousands there—but some of them had returned alive. All it took was one person who might recognize him, blow the whistle on him. He took precautions, yes. He shunned publicity. He led a quiet life. He always traveled by private car, private plane, private boat. Photographers were never allowed near him. But always he walked around with a death sentence hanging over his head. Someone might recognize him.
The worst had happened the day Hélène Junot arrived at his office, slapping copies of the incriminating documents down on his desk. He shuddered, Remembering that day. Still, was it enough that the documents were destroyed?
He pushed a weary hand through his thinning white hair. She was a witness. She had seen the documents. She could still make him stand trial for war crimes.
She was alive.
3
Jennifer Rowen rolled over in the bed and gently shook her husband awake. Her voice finally pushed through the thick blanket of his sleep. 'Honey. . .wake up, honey.'
He moaned and opened his eyes, looking up at her. Then he blinked and shaded his eyes with his hand against the glare of the nightstand light. He struggled to sit up. 'What is it?' he asked irritably.
She held up one hand to show him. She was holding the ivory receiver of the bedroom extension phone, the cupped palm of her hand wrapped around the mouthpiece. 'Honey, it's that person again,' she whispered in a frightened voice. 'You know who I mean.'
'The whisperer?' he asked sleepily.
She nodded and handed the receiver over to him, ducking the cord. He took it and cleared his throat. 'Robert Rowen speaking.'
'Mr. Rowen?' The whisper over the wire was thin and reedy. For some reason, it sent a chill up his spine. Perhaps it was because the voice sounded so disembodied and he couldn't connect it with a face.
'Are you there, Mr. Rowen?'
'Yes, yes, of course.'
'Have you given any more thought to our proposition?'
For a moment, Rowen hesitated. He glanced over at Jennifer. She was watching him with open curiosity. He wished she would take some kind of cue and leave the room, but he couldn't ask her to do that. She would get too suspicious. He kept his voice noncommittal. 'Yes,' he said carefully, 'I've given it thorough thought.'
'And what conclusion have you arrived at?'
Rowen didn't hesitate now. 'You have yourself a deal,' he said. 'That is, unless she comes up with the money by five o'clock tomorrow afternoon.' He glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand. 'I mean, this afternoon,' he corrected himself. 'If she doesn't, the bank will confiscate the collateral and I'll make certain that we sell it as you see fit.'
'A very wise decision, if I say so myself, Mr. Rowen.' The voice gave a low, whispery laugh. 'She can never come up with eleven million dollars, believe me!'
There was a pause. Rowen waited for the caller to continue.
'Say we meet in the morni
ng? An attaché case filled with five hundred thousand dollars will be exchanged for your word. You'll receive the other half-million once the transaction is completed and the shares are in our hands. We warn you, though. . .' The whisper took on the sharp, harsh tones of a hiss. 'Do not try to double-cross us!'
Rowen smiled into the receiver. 'I wouldn't dream of doing that.'
'Another wise decision, to be sure, Mr. Rowen. To show our goodwill, we shall deliver the money to you at eight a.m.'
'Where shall we meet?'
'Is the Staten Island ferry terminal convenient?'
'That would be very convenient,' Rowen agreed. 'How will I recognize you?'
'It is I who shall recognize you, Mr. Rowen. You do have a trench coat?'
'Yes,' Rowen said curiously, thinking of the London Fog raincoat Jennifer had given him last Christmas.
'Then wear it. And please, do be trite and put a red carnation in your left lapel buttonhole. I will recognize you by that. We shall meet in the men's room. Good night, Mr. Rowen.'
'Good night—'
But the phone had already clicked; the caller had hung up. Rowen stared at the receiver for a moment, shrugged, and then slowly handed it back to Jennifer.
She took it and dropped it on the nightstand extension. She turned to him. 'Honey. . .' She looked at him anxiously. 'What's wrong?'
He forced a smile. 'Nothing's wrong. It was just business.' He leaned over and planted a kiss on her lips.
She stiffened and refused to respond. 'At two in the morning?' she asked suspiciously. She shook her head. 'By the look on your face, I know that something's up. Why can't you tell me?'
'All right, Jennie,' he said wearily, 'after tomorrow morning, we're going to be rich.'
'Rich! Now I know you're pulling my leg!' She turned away.
'I'm serious,' he said quietly.
Something in his voice caught her. 'But how?' Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'You're. . .you're not thinking of stealing!'
'Bite your tongue.' He smiled tightly. 'No, I'm not going to steal. Who do you think you married, a fool? Just trust me, Jennie.' He took her hand in his and squeezed it. 'You wait and see. We'll have money to burn!'
YESTERDAY
VI Divorce
1
Paris, 1960
Edmond stepped aside to let Hélène into the apartment. Her eyes swept down the hall to the living room. It was stuffy and hot in here. Despite the fragrant spring weather, all the windows were shut and most of the curtains were drawn against the sunlight. She shuddered. There was something dismal about it. As if he was trying to shut the world out. 'I'm glad I caught you at home,' she said. 'I'm not disturbing you, am I?'
He smiled weakly as he closed the door and led the way into the living room. 'I'm just studying.' He waved helplessly toward the desk. Open volumes were illuminated by a single arc desk lamp with a weak bulb. 'Can I get you something?'
'No, thanks,' she said, putting her purse down on the couch and smoothing her skirt behind her before she carefully took a seat, avoiding one of the lethal exposed sofa springs. She had to fight to keep from wrinkling her nostrils. The apartment wasn't only dim, it was dirty and dusty as well. Already she could feel it irritating her nostrils. Long gone were the sounds of laughter, the smiles of contentment, the delicious smells of cooking hovering in the air.
'I just came by to have a little talk,' she explained in what she hoped was an offhand voice. It took an effort for her to smile at him. She quickly forgot her own emotional disappointments when she saw him. He looked haggard and so terribly beaten. His threadbare red cardigan had holes in the elbows. If Jeanne were alive, she would have seen to it that they were mended.
'What do you want to talk about?' he asked.
'In a minute,' she said, suddenly uncomfortable. 'I think I'll have something to drink after all. Do you have any chilled white wine?'
He nodded. 'I think so. I'll be right back.'
She watched him walk toward the kitchen. Slowly, she shook her head.
Why doesn't he snap out of it? she asked herself. Why doesn't he come back to life instead of burying his nose in his books? You can mourn for only so long. Then you have to go on living. She knew, too, that the person who suffered most was Petite Hélène. Young and resilient though she was, she had lost her mother, and now, Hélène realized she had lost her father also, albeit to the university. Only Hélène herself had profited psychologically from having to shoulder some of the responsibility for her niece. It had given her yet another task to undertake, one which filled up the last remaining gaps left by Jeanne's death and Nigel's desertion. Even more important, it had opened up a whole new vista of the future. A future so dazzling she dared not breathe a word of it to anyone.
She had given careful thought as to how Petite Hélène was to be raised. She had made her promise to Jeanne, and she was determined to stick to it. Not only for Jeanne's sake but also because it suited her own ambitious ends. Already she had carefully begun to plot Petite Hélène's future, inextricably tying it to Les Editions Hélène Junot. Since her abortion had made it impossible for her to have children, it was only natural that Petite Hélène would be her link to the future, her insurance that Les Modes would be kept in the family.
It was a long way off, but that was the strength of the plan. Grooming an heir was a painstaking process that takes time, and there was sufficient time to do it correctly. Time to supervise the complicated process and make sure that it was done step by step. Petite Hélène would have everything she herself had ever lacked. The way was already paved; the wherewithal was there. Now it was only a matter of careful guidance. Petite Hélène would go to the best schools, meet the right people, attend the best Swiss finishing school, become a social item, an expert businesswoman. Hélène had it all worked out. Never once did she give a passing thought to the fact that the girl might not be cut out for a business career or that her plan might somehow fail. She thought about only one thing. It had to be done.
Since it was so far in the future, she kept her strategy to herself. She did not even tell Edmond about it. Meanwhile, she would start the process, but she wouldn't go overboard, either. Petite Hélène had to be raised like other children. She must not be deprived of a normal childhood as she herself had been. Yet the fires of long-term ambition had to be constantly fed and kept alive. After all, Petite Hélène was already six. It wasn't premature to breed a little bit of the lady into her. As far as that was concerned, one could never start too soon. Hélène knew from her own life how impressionable she had been at Petite Hélène's age. All her adult strengths had their roots there.
The only thing that took time was planning how to go about her plan. It had to be done in the best possible way for all the parties concerned. First, she had to have more control over Petite Hélène, but she couldn't just take the child and raise her by herself. Petite Hélène was Edmond's daughter. Despite the fact that he didn't see enough of her, Hélène knew that he loved her above everything else in the world. She was all that was left of his union with Jeanne. It would be cruel and terribly unfair of her to tear his daughter away from him.
For a while, Hélène entertained the idea of getting a huge apartment and living together with them. That way, she would be close to Petite Helene. It would give her a thousand opportunities to give her niece constant guidance. But eventually she discarded this idea, also. It wouldn't do for a brother and sister, no matter how close the relationship or how big the apartment, to be living together. Not that it would raise any eyebrows. Besides, she had long ago stopped caring about what people thought. It just wouldn't have been fair. Not to Petite Hélène or to Jeanne's memory. Jeanne had been her mother; Petite Hélène must never be confused about that.
But finally Hélène had come to a decision.
Edmond came from the kitchen, careful not to spill any wine from the glass. He handed it to her.
'Aren't you having any?' she asked.
He shook his head and sat down bes
ide her.
She took a sip and set the glass down on the table beside her. She folded her hands in her lap and watched him light a cigarette. Then he looked at her through the cloud of smoke. 'I take it this is not a social call?'
She smiled uncomfortably. 'I'm afraid not. And I hope you won't think I'm trying to barge in on something that's none of my business.'
He smiled grimly and smoked in silence.
'Edmond, we've always been close. You know that.'
He nodded his head slowly.
'Far closer than most brothers and sisters. But ever since Jeanne. . .' Hélène sighed and quickly looked down at her hands. 'Ever since Jeanne died, things haven't been the same between us, and that's been a long time now.'
He turned away and faced the far wall as he felt the tears springing to his eyes.
Hélène glanced sadly at him. It was said that time heals all wounds. Yet it seemed as if his were as open and bleeding as the day they were inflicted.
'If you'd rather not talk about it, I'll understand,' she said quietly. 'I didn't drop by to cause you any more pain.'
She saw the back of his head nodding. 'I know that,' he said huskily.
She bit down on her lower lip and wondered how to continue. Perhaps she should just wait and broach the subject some other time? Then she took a quick swallow of wine. No, this couldn't wait. It was too important.
She shifted around on the couch and touched his arm, gently pulling him back around to face her. There was sorrow in her eyes. 'Edmond, it's Petite Hélène I'm worried about. Can't you see what this is doing to her? You're never around, and if you are, your nose is buried in your books.'
He nodded dumbly and stared straight through her. 'What do you want me to do?'
She pressed his hand between both of hers. 'To give her more attention. Get someone to cook for her. To keep her company.'
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