Sins

by Gould, Judith

  'Legal department,' a woman's voice said hollowly.

  'This is the Comte de Léger. Is Mr. Junot in?'

  'Please hold, sir. I'll check and see.' There was a click and he was put on hold. After a while there was another click.

  'Edmond Junot speaking.' Even the telephone lines found it difficult to make the resonance of his voice sound hollow.

  A grimace distorted Hubert's lips. He didn't like Edmond Junot one bit. Never had, in fact. Although he wouldn't admit it even to himself, something about the man threatened him.

  'This is Hubert de Léger,' Hubert said, automatically slipping into French.

  Edmond chose to speak English. 'Actually, I'm in the middle of an important meeting . . .'

  'Then I won't keep you long,' Hubert assured him quickly. 'I was just wondering about the status of the HJII shares. Has the ManhattanBank loan been repaid?'

  'That is my sister's business, I believe,' Edmond said stiffly.

  'I know it is,' Hubert said smoothly. 'However, as you well know, the status of that loan affects all of Junot's shareholders, myself included. Believe me, I regret very much having to intrude on your time.'

  Edmond was silent for a moment. 'Perhaps you are right,' he said finally in an even voice. 'The status of that loan does affect you and the others.' He paused. 'It was repaid at ten-thirty this morning.'

  Hubert's voice was a whisper. 'You're. . .you're not joking?'

  'Believe me, Mr. de Léger, I don't joke about such matters. At the request of my sister, I went down to ManhattanBank to take care of the matter personally.'

  'Th-thank you.'

  With trembling fingers Hubert replaced the receiver. He was shaking with fury. Mr. de Léger! That peasant knew very well that he was Monsieur le Comte!

  He got to his feet and looked down at his desk. The telephone seemed to be mocking him, laughing at him with its shrill rings. He hadn't even realized that it had begun to ring. All he knew was that the jeering sounds reverberated crazily in his head. And they had stopped only after he'd smashed the damned instrument and it lay broken at his feet.

  Just as the Mercedes limousine pulled up in front of the Pierre, the bottle of Armagnac was empty. Hubert shook it, glared at it, and then tossed it down beside him on the seat. He didn't wait for the chauffeur to come around and hold open his door for him or for the liveried doorman to rush over. He jerked open the door himself and leaped out, leaving it wide open in his hurry. He rushed into the lobby. Not bothering to announce himself at the desk, he marched straight up to the bank of elevators. A minute later he got off on Karl von Eiderfeld's floor.

  Impatiently he banged on the door of the apartment. A maid in uniform opened it. He pushed past her into the dim foyer.

  'I beg your pardon, sir,' she said politely. 'Is there someone you wish to see?'

  Hubert looked wildly around the foyer. 'Where is he?'

  'He?'

  'Von Eiderfeld!' Hubert said irritably.

  'In the living room, sir.'

  'Get out!'

  'Sir?' The woman looked at him as if she hadn't heard right.

  Hubert drew himself up to his full height. 'Are you going to get out or do I have to throw you out?'

  Wide-eyed, the maid fled into the corridor. She glanced over her shoulder and then swiftly shut the door behind her.

  Upon hearing the commotion, von Eiderfeld had come into the foyer. 'My dear Comte, you look beside yourself,' he said smoothly.

  'She's done it!' Hubert screamed.

  Von Eiderfeld drew back and stared at him. 'Who has done what?'

  'The bitch, who else?' Hubert made a wild gesture as he whirled around and stalked into the living room. He blinked in the darkness, trying to get his bearings. Then he headed straight over to the armoire, flung the doors open, grabbed the first bottle in sight, unscrewed the cap, and took a massive swig. He let out a heavy sigh and banged the bottle back down on the shelf.

  Von Eiderfeld was watching him quietly from across the room. He had never seen anyone in such a dangerous rage. Hubert needed calming down; that he could see. But how to do it? Perhaps by just remaining silent. That was what the General Staff used to do when the Fuhrer flew into his rages.

  Eventually they worked their way out of the system. For the time being, the best thing to do was to humor Hubert.

  His whole body shaking, Hubert dropped into a fragile French chair and buried his face in his hands. After a moment, a bit of his composure returned. He looked up at von Eiderfeld with a drawn expression. 'You owe me a quarter of a million,' he said quietly.

  This came as some surprise, to be sure. Slowly von Eiderfeld walked over to the fireplace. There was no fire in the hearth, but the logs were already neatly stacked on the grate. He stared up at the big dark canvas above the mantel, his back to Hubert. He was thinking rapidly. The quarter-million could mean only one thing: half the five hundred thousand Hubert had insisted on bribing Rowen with. He would go just so far in humoring Hubert. There had to be a cutoff point. 'Why don't you tell me exactly what has happened?' he said calmly.

  Hubert glared at him. 'All right, I'll tell you. She's done it. She's gone off, married the Duke, and paid off the loan.'

  Von Eiderfeld looked thoughtful and rubbed his chin with his fist. 'It doesn't really surprise me,' he said. There was a note of respect in his voice. 'She's a remarkable woman, you know. Survival is at her very core.'

  'What kind of shit are you mumbling now?' Hubert sprang to his feet. He raced from one window to the next, yanking aside the drawn curtains. The morning sun was gone; the sky was a uniform gray, several shades lighter than the graffiti-covered boulders sticking up out of Central Park. Either tonight or sometime tomorrow it would start to snow.

  Von Eiderfeld shielded his sensitive eyes with one hand. 'Why don't you compose yourself?' he said quietly, turning his back to the windows.

  Hubert's chest heaved and fell. 'Compose myself!' he said. 'I want a check for a quarter of a million. Now!'

  'You believe that I should pay for your mistakes?' von Eiderfeld asked softly without turning around. 'For your miscalculations? I warned you to wait until five o'clock this afternoon.'

  'We had a deal to split the bribe fifty-fifty, Remember?'

  'We had a deal to wait until after the close of the business day,' von Eiderfeld corrected him.

  'So you want to renege! I should have known better than to trust you! You're just like everyone else! Well, you're through!' Hubert snarled suddenly. 'I know all about you! I read those files she had on you!'

  Von Eiderfeld turned to look at him. His voice quivered slightly. 'So? They are now just a pile of ashes.'

  Hubert laughed bitterly. 'I'll see to it that there's a full-scale investigation anyway. I Remember what was in those files. I even copied some of it down. You know what I'll do with that? I'll call the Israeli authorities. You're through, you pink-eyed albino freak! I'll see that you're put on trial and executed!'

  'Sit down and compose yourself!' von Eiderfeld commanded.

  Hubert lunged at him, grabbed his lapels, and shook him. 'Nobody stabs me in the back, do you hear? I'll fix you! It'll be like they did with Eichmann! They'll put you in a glass booth like a pheasant under glass!' Hubert began to laugh crazily. Savagely he pushed von Eiderfeld backward and let go of the lapels. Von Eiderfeld stumbled and fell into a chair. He said nothing, just stared. Hubert wasn't rational. He should have stayed as far away from him as possible.

  Karl von Eiderfeld didn't doubt for an instant that Hubert's threat was serious. An irrational mind like his was capable of destroying anything and anyone. Still, there was one tiny consolation. Hubert was wrong about the end being at hand for him. One phase of his life, perhaps. But not the end. Call it. . .a new beginning.

  After Hubert stomped out and slammed the door, von Eiderfeld got up from the chair with a peculiar sort of dignity. He knew exactly what he had to do. He brushed his sleeves as he crossed over to the windows. One by one, he drew the curt
ains shut again. Then he stopped at the telephone table. He bent over, unlocked a shallow drawer, and pulled it open. He took out two leather folders. In one was his passport, in the other a wallet. This passport and wallet were always within reach in the event of just such an emergency. The passport was his ticket to a new life. The wallet would help him get there. It was thick with cash and traveler's checks.

  Quickly he pocketed both. Then he dialed a telephone number that he had committed to memory long ago. It was to a helicopter service operating out of the heliport beside the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. He told them to have a helicopter waiting for him in twenty minutes, rotors turning and ready for takeoff. Then he dialed another memorized number in New Jersey. Hélène had specifically forbidden him ever to use private transportation. Up until this moment, he had followed her instructions to the letter. Yet, unknown even to her, he had a private Lear jet in readiness wherever he went, even though he never used it. It was waiting now at Teterboro Airport. Once he boarded, he would give the pilot piecemeal instructions. First, he would fly to Dallas, refuel, and fly on to Mexico City. From there, it was down to Panama City and then over the Andes, jungles, and pampas to Uruguay. He had fifteen million dollars stashed away there. Two million was deposited in a bank, one million in cash was hidden, and twelve million in gold and flawless diamonds was buried in a spot only he and Helga knew of.

  After calling Teterboro, he put down the receiver. He was glad that he had had the foresight to foresee an emergency like this. Now that the moment had come, he didn't have to panic. For years he had generously seen to it that the high officials in the governments of several countries were well taken care of financially. When the governments in power changed or fell, as they tended to do with geometric rapidity in South America, he had immediately made contact with the new leaders. Besides Uruguay, he had two other contingency plans open to him, one in nearby Paraguay, the other in Costa Rica. His only regrets were that he would no longer be sitting at the helm of Von Eiderfeld Industrien G.m.b.H. and that he would never be able to set foot on his beloved German soil again. He hated semitropical and tropical climates. He missed the changes of season, and the sun hurt his eyes and burned his skin. In South America, everything was turned around. Efficiency was lacking, and even the seasons, one almost indistinguishable from the next, came lazily at the wrong times of the year. But at least his home in Punta del Este stood in readiness. It had been designed with shady loggias and thick blinds which cut the glare of the sun to a minimum. And Helga would be content. There was an Olympic-size pool.

  Another comfort were his sons, Rolf and Otto. On and off, they could perhaps visit with him. That way, he would at least be able to oversee the business from a distance. Even with him far away in the background, Von Eiderfeld Industrien would be able to expand. When Hubert blew the whistle, a scandal would touch the corporation and his sons, but it wouldn't do any of them much harm. The bulk of the corporation was involved in oil and refining; both were in desperate demand. Germany had no petroleum resources of her own. The German government would gladly see to it that nothing would stop the wheels of Von Eiderfeld Industrien from turning. As far as Rolf and Otto were concerned, both were adopted. For once, he was glad about that. They knew he was not their natural father, and the stigma of his past wouldn't devour them. And he had taught them both well. They knew how to survive. Hubert's threats were harmless. Mere irritants. Besides, it was high time he retired. He was old and tired. It was time he spent his remaining years quietly with Helga.

  At three-fifteen Karl von Eiderfeld walked out of the Hotel Pierre without even a briefcase in his hand. The sky was getting darker. Already, lights were on everywhere, yellow and bright. He never once glanced backward.

  He pulled up his Persian-lamb collar, adjusted his hat, and thrust his hands in his topcoat pockets. He walked slowly toward Madison Avenue. Like any tourist or native New Yorker, he stopped at the expensive stores and gazed in at the enticing windows. There was nothing suspicious about his behavior. He didn't flee, he didn't run, he didn't have luggage. He wasn't even nervous. Unknown to everyone, he had in his breast pocket the only two things he would ever need. His wallet and his passport. Everything else could be left behind.

  Slowly he continued walking until he reached the heliport at the East River. Only when he was hovering above the glittering canyons of Manhattan and the Bell Jet Ranger helicopter turned and nosed swiftly through the darkening skies toward New Jersey did he let out a sigh of relief.

  He smiled grimly to himself. He and Hélène Junot had far more in common than either of them would have liked to admit.

  They were both survivors.

  4

  The snow was beginning to come down in plump white flakes as Hélène's white Rolls-Royce pulled to a stop on the tarmac beside the waiting HJII jet. The chauffeur helped Hélène out of the car. She was cocooned in the soft lushness of a Max Reby Montana lynx coat. Nigel emerged behind her.

  Hélène was radiant with happiness. For once in her life, even winter, which she had always dreaded, could not detract from her joy. She felt far too good. It was hard for her to believe that she and Nigel were finally married and headed for—at last—the honeymoon both had yearned for so long.

  Above the Rolls, the oval portholes of the jet shone yellow in the night. Small red and white lights along the wingtips and atop the fuselage blinked on and off with mechanical precision. Everything was in readiness for instant takeoff.

  Suddenly panic swept through her. Perhaps this was only a dream. Perhaps. . .She took a deep breath and glanced down at her hand. The twenty-eight-carat Somerset Sun flashed on her finger. It was real. This was no dream. A flood of relief flowed through her. She really was Hélène Somerset, the seventeenth Duchess of Farquharshire.

  Nigel touched her lynx-clad elbow. 'Your Grace. . .' he said teasingly, as if reading her thoughts, and bowed low.

  She giggled happily and threw her arms around his neck. 'You'd better watch it, silly man,' she warned playfully. 'As a duchess I demand respect.'

  Suddenly her face became serious and she stroked his cheek. 'Nigel,' she whispered, 'what in the world am I going to do with you?'

  He smiled. 'Everything, I hope.' Then he pulled her close and looked down at her. Delicate snowflakes were caught in her blue-black hair, and in the floodlights they sparkled like multifaceted jewels. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were oddly luminous. He shook his head in disbelief. 'My God, but you're beautiful,' he said in a whisper.

  She took a deep breath and looked up into his eyes. 'So are you, my darling,' she replied softly. As she spoke, a tremor ran through her.

  He could feel it. Slowly he inclined his head closer, and she let out a little cry as she parted her lips to meet his. She tasted deliciously soft and warm. Greedily he found her tongue.

  He opened his eyes. 'Oh, my darling,' he said with a smile. 'If you could only know how happy you make me.'

  She smiled back at him. 'Mmmmmm,' she murmured. Then she kissed his lips again.

  In the distance, a 747 lifted off. For a moment its flashing lights were visible as it climbed into the snowy sky. Then it disappeared. The passing rumble sounded like thunder.

  Nigel glanced at the HJII jet beside them. 'We'd better go inside,' he suggested. 'Otherwise our flying coach might turn into a pumpkin.'

  'Or worse yet, our flying coach's runway may get closed down due to the snow,' she warned.

  They laughed, untangled their arms, and boarded. She was the first one up the folding steps. Once inside the six-foot-high headroom of the jet, Nigel ducked his head. 'One inch,' he moaned. 'Why do I seem to be the only person I know of who had the miserable luck to be born just one inch too tall to enjoy full headroom on private jets and cabin cruisers?'

  'Punishment,' she teased. 'For a lifetime of making everyone look up at you.'

  She looked around the cabin. Everything was in position for takeoff. The burnished burl tables were folded down for safety, the overhead light
s gleamed, and the recessed cabin lights above the portholes were reflected in the smoked-Plexiglas-and-mirror bulkheads that divided the cabin. The leather-trimmed, limousine-cloth seats were in their upright positions. Up front, in the cockpit, the complicated instrument panels were lit up like a carnival: red, green, blue. Through the tinted windshield, the night looked eerie. Greenish-yellow.

  Hélène frowned. The pilot's seat was empty. 'Where is Hendricks?' she asked the copilot.

  He turned around, and she frowned. He was a total stranger. Not very tall, with brown hair and generally nondescript features. The remarkable thing about his face was his eyes. Behind the silver-rimmed aviator glasses, they were icy blue. Even his crisply starched pale blue shirt held more warmth.

  'Who are you?' Her voice was puzzled.

  For an instant the Chameleon's eyes bore right through hers. Then he got up and stepped nimbly sideways between the two seats, turning to face her. Hélène's eyes dropped and then flared in disbelief, and her blood ran cold. She tried to swallow, but her throat was tight and dry.

  She was staring into the barrel of a Browning revolver.

  'Someone named Z.Z. sends you her regards,' the Chameleon said evenly. And pressed the trigger.

  5

  Nine interminable hours passed before Dr. Weiner finally pushed through the double doors. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingertips. He was bone-weary, as if he'd been fighting a losing battle, which was closer to the truth than he liked to admit. His eyes were encircled with the deep, dark smudges of fatigue.

  'Dr. Weiner!' Edmond jumped from the plastic waiting-room chair and rushed forward, Petite Hélène at his heels.

  'We're doing all we can, Mr. Junot,' Dr. Weiner said simply. 'If it's any consolation, this hospital is one of the finest in the country, and three of the most eminent surg—'