The Scarlatti Inheritance

by Robert Ludlum

  “Could the defection of Heinrich Kroeger shorten the war?”

  “I don’t know. The possibility brought me to your office.”

  “What is the file this Major Canfield demands?” Brayduck was annoyed.

  “I know only the number and the classification stated by the archives section of the State Department.”

  “What are they?” Cordell Hull again leaned forward on his desk.

  Ellis hesitated. It would be inviting personal as well as professional embarrassment to state the terms of the file without giving Hull the data on Canfield. He would have been able to do that had Brayduck not been there. Goddamn college boys. Ellis was always uncomfortable with the fast talkers. Damn! he thought. He’d be direct with Hull.

  “Before I answer you, may I take the opportunity to fill in some background material I believe is most relevant.… Not only relevant, sir, but intrinsic to the file itself.”

  “By all means.” Hull wasn’t sure whether he was irritated or fascinated.

  “The final communication from Heinrich Kroeger to Major Canfield demands a preliminary meeting with someone identified only as … April Red. This meeting is to take place in Bern, Switzerland, prior to any negotiations between Kroeger and Canfield.”

  “Who is April Red, General? I gather from the tone of your voice that you have an idea who he may be.” Very little was lost on Undersecretary Brayduck, and Brigadier Ellis was painfully aware of the fact.

  “We … or more specifically … I think I do.” Ellis opened the white folder in his hands and flipped the top page over the cardboard. “If I may have the secretary’s permission, I have extracted the following from Major Canfield’s security check.”

  “Of course, General.”

  “Matthew Canfield—entered government service, Department of the Interior, in March, nineteen seventeen. Education—one year University of Oklahoma, one and one-half years night school extension courses, Washington, D.C. Employed as a junior accountant government frauds section of Interior. Promoted to field accountant in nineteen eighteen. Attached to Group Twenty division, which, as you know …”

  Cordell Hull interrupted quietly. “A small, highly trained unit assigned to conflicts of interests, misappropriations, et cetera, during the First World War. Very effective too.… Until, as most such units, it became overly impressed with itself. Disbanded in twenty-nine or thirty, I believe.”

  “In nineteen thirty-two, Mr. Secretary.” General Ellis was pleased that he had the facts at his command. He flipped a second page over the top of the folder and continued to read.

  “Canfield remained with Interior for a period of ten years, rising four pay grades. Superior performance. Excellent rating. In May of nineteen twenty-seven he resigned from government service to enter employment with the Scarlatti Industries.”

  At the mention of the name Scarlatti, both Hull and Brayduck reacted as if stung.

  “Which of the Scarlatti companies?”

  “Executive Offices, five twenty-five Fifth Avenue, New York.”

  Cordell Hull toyed with the thin black cord of his pince-nez. “Quite a jump for our Mr. Canfield. From night school in Washington to the executive offices of Scarlatti.” He glanced downward, taking his eyes off the general.

  “Is Scarlatti one of the corporations you referred to in your memorandum?” Brayduck was impatient.

  Before the brigadier could answer, Cordell Hull rose from his chair. Hull was tall and imposing. Much larger than the other two. “General Ellis, I instruct you not to answer any further questions!”

  Brayduck looked as though he’d been slapped. He stared at Hull, confused and startled by the secretary’s order to the brigadier. Hull returned his gaze and spoke softly.

  “My apologies, Mr. Brayduck. I cannot guarantee it, but I hope to have an explanation for you later in the day. Until then, will you be so kind as to leave us alone?”

  “Of course.” Brayduck knew that this good and honest old man had his reasons. “No explanation is necessary, sir.”

  “However, one is deserved.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Secretary. You may be assured of my confidence regarding this meeting.”

  Hull’s eyes followed Brayduck until the door was closed. He then returned to the brigadier general, who stood quietly, not comprehending. “Undersecretary Brayduck is an extraordinary public servant. My dismissing him is not to be construed as a reflection on either his character or his work.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hull slowly and in some pain sat down once more in his chair. “I asked Mr. Brayduck to leave because I believe I may know something of what you’re about to discuss. If I’m right, it’s best we be alone.”

  The brigadier general was unsettled. He did not think it possible for Hull to know.

  “Don’t be alarmed, General. I’m no mind reader.… I was in the House of Representatives during the period you speak of. Your words evoked a memory. An almost forgotten memory of a very warm afternoon in the House.… But perhaps I’m in error. Please continue where you left off. I believe our Major Canfield had entered employment with the Scarlatti Industries.… A most unusual step, I think you’ll agree.”

  “There is a logical explanation. Canfield married the widow of Ulster Stewart Scarlett six months after Scarlett’s death in Zurich, Switzerland, in nineteen twenty-six. Scarlett was the youngest of two surviving sons of Giovanni and Elizabeth Scarlatti, founders of the Scarlatti Industries.”

  Cordell Hull briefly closed his eyes. “Go on.”

  “Ulster Scarlett and his wife Janet Saxon Scarlett had a son, Andrew Roland, subsequently adopted by Matthew Canfield after his marriage to Scarlett’s widow. Adopted but not separated from the Scarlatti estates.… Canfield continued in the employ of Scarlatti until August, nineteen forty, when he returned to government service and was commissioned in Army Intelligence.”

  General Ellis paused and looked over the folder at Cordell Hull. He wondered if Hull was beginning to understand, but the secretary’s face betrayed no expression.

  “You spoke of the file Canfield has requested from the archives. What is it?”

  “That was my next consideration, Mr. Secretary.” Ellis folded over another page. “The file is only a number to us, but the number gives us the year of its entry.… It’s nineteen twenty-six, the fourth quarter of twenty-six to be exact.”

  “And what are the terms of classification?”

  “Maximum. It can be released only by an executive order signed by the president for reasons of national security.”

  “I presume that one of the signators—witnesses to the file—was a man then employed by the Department of the Interior by the name of Matthew Canfield.”

  The brigadier was visibly upset but continued to hold the white folder firmly between his thumb and forefinger. “That is correct.”

  “And now he wants it back or he refuses to make contact with Kroeger.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I trust you have pointed out to him the illegality of his position?”

  “I have personally threatened him with a court-martial.… His only reply was that it’s our choice to refuse him.”

  “And then no contact is made with Kroeger?”

  “Yes, sir.… It’s my opinion that Major Canfield would rather face spending the rest of his life in a military prison than alter his position.”

  Cordell Hull rose from his chair and faced the general. “Would you care to summarize?”

  “It is my belief that the April Red referred to by Heinrich Kroeger is the boy, Andrew Roland. I think he’s Kroeger’s son. The initials are the same. The boy was born in April, nineteen twenty-six. I believe that Heinrich Kroeger is Ulster Scarlett.”

  “He died in Zurich.” Hull watched the general closely.

  “The circumstances are suspect. There is on record only a death certificate from an obscure court in a small village thirty miles outside of Zurich and untraceable affidavits of witnesses never heard of before o
r since.”

  Hull stared coelly into the general’s eyes. “You realize what you’re saying? Scarlatti is one of the corporate giants.”

  “I do, sir. I contend further that Major Canfield is aware of Kroeger’s identity and intends to destroy the file.”

  “Do you believe that it’s a conspiracy? A conspiracy to conceal the identity of Kroeger?”

  “I don’t know.… I’m not very good at putting into words another person’s motives. But Major Canfield’s reactions seem so intensely private that I’m inclined to believe that it’s a highly personal matter.”

  Hull smiled. “I think you’re very good with words.… However, you do believe that the truth is in the file? And if it is, why would Canfield bring it to our attention? Certainly he knows that if we can get it for him, we certainly can get it for ourselves. We might never have been aware of it, had he kept silent.”

  “As I said, Canfield’s an experienced man. I’m sure he’s acting on the premise that we soon will be aware of it.”

  “How?”

  “Through Kroeger.… And Canfield has set the condition that the file’s seals be intact. He’s an expert, sir. He’d know if they were tampered with.”

  Cordell Hull walked around his desk past the brigadier with his hands clasped behind his back. His gait was stiff, his health obviously failing. Brayduck had been right, thought the secretary of state. If even the specter of a relationship between the powerful American industrialists and the German High Command became known, regardless of how remote or how long in the past, it could tear the country apart. Especially during a national election.

  “In your judgment if we delivered the file to Major Canfield, would he produce … April Red … for this meeting with Kroeger?”

  “I believe he would.”

  “Why? It’s a cruel thing to do to an eighteen-year-old boy.”

  The general hesitated. “I’m not sure he has an alternative. There’s nothing to prevent Kroeger from making other arrangements.”

  Hull stopped pacing and looked at the brigadier general. He had made up his mind. “I shall have the president sign an executive order for the file. However, and frankly I place this as a condition for his signature, your suppositions are to remain between the two of us.”

  “The two of us?”

  “I shall brief President Roosevelt on the substance of our conversation, but I will not burden him with conjectures which may prove to be unfounded. Your theory may be nothing more than a series of recorded coincidences easily explained.”

  “I understand.”

  “But if you are correct, Heinrich Kroeger could trigger an internal collapse in Berlin. Germany’s in a death struggle.… As you’ve pointed out, he’s had extraordinary staying power. He’s part of the elite corps surrounding Hitler. The Praetorian Guard revolts against Caesar. If you’re wrong, however, then we must both think of two people who will soon be on their way to Bern. And may God have mercy on our souls.”

  Brigadier General Ellis replaced the pages in the white folder, picked up the attaché case at his feet, and walked to the large black door. As he closed it behind him, he saw that Hull was staring at him. He had an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Hull was not thinking about the general, however. He was remembering that warm afternoon long ago in the House of Representatives. Member after member had gotten up and read glowing tributes into the Congressional Record eulogizing a brave young American who was presumed dead. Everyone from both parties had expected him, the honorable member from the great state of Tennessee, to add his comments. Heads kept turning toward his desk in anticipation.

  Cordell Hull was the only member of the house who was on a first-name basis with the renowned Elizabeth Scarlatti, that legend in her own time. The mother of the brave young man being glorified for posterity in the Congress of the United States.

  For in spite of their political differences, Hull and his wife had been friends with Elizabeth Scarlatti for years.

  Yet he had remained silent that warm afternoon.

  He had known Ulster Stewart Scarlett, and he had despised him.

  CHAPTER 2

  The brown sedan with the United States Army insignia on both doors turned right on Twenty-second Street and entered Gramercy Square.

  In the back seat Matthew Canfield leaned forward, taking the briefcase off his lap and placing it at his feet. He pulled the right sleeve of his overcoat down to conceal the thick silver chain, which was tightly wound around his wrist and looped through the metal handle of the case.

  He knew that the contents of the briefcase, or more specifically, his possession of its contents, signified the end for him. When it was all over, and if he were still alive, they would crucify him if a way could be found that would exonerate the military.

  The army car made two left turns and stopped by the entrance of the Gramercy Arms Apartments. A uniformed doorman opened the rear door and Canfield stepped out.

  “I want you back here in half an hour,” he told his driver. “No later.”

  The pale sergeant, obviously conditioned by his superior’s habits, replied, “I’ll be back in twenty minutes, sir.”

  The major nodded appreciatively, turned, and went into the building. As he rode the elevator up, the major numbly realized how tired he was. Each number seemed to stay lighted far longer than it should have; the time lapse between the floors seemed interminable. And yet he was in no hurry. No hurry, whatsoever.

  Eighteen years. The end of the lie but not the end of the fear. That would come only when Kroeger was dead. What would be left was guilt. He could live with the guilt, for it would be his alone and not the boy’s or Janet’s.

  It would be his death, too. Not Janet’s. Not Andrew’s. If death was called for, it would be his. He’d make sure of that.

  He would not leave Bern, Switzerland, until Kroeger was dead.

  Kroeger or himself.

  In all likelihood, both of them.

  Out of the elevator he turned left and stepped down the short hallway to a door. He unlocked the door and stepped into a large, comfortable living room, furnished in Italian provincial style. Two huge bay windows over-looked the park, and various doors led to the bedrooms, dining room, the pantry, and the library. Canfield stood for a moment and thought unavoidably that all this, too, went back eighteen years.

  The library door opened and a young man walked out. He nodded to Canfield without enthusiasm. “Hello, Dad.”

  Canfield stared at the boy. It took a great deal of strength not to rush to his son and hold him.

  His son.

  And not his son.

  He knew if he attempted such a gesture it would be rejected. The boy was wary now and, although he tried not to show it, afraid.

  “Hello,” said the major. “Give me a hand with all this, will you?”

  The young man crossed to the older one and mumbled, “Sure thing.”

  Between them they unfastened the primary lock on the chain, and the younger man held the briefcase out straight so Canfield could manipulate the secondary combination lock, which was secured on the flat of his wrist. The briefcase came loose, and Canfield removed his hat overcoat and uniform jacket throwing them on an easy chair.

  The boy held the briefcase, standing motionless before the major. He was extraordinarily good looking. He had bright blue eyes below very dark eyebrows, a straight but slightly upturned nose, and black hair combed neatly back. His complexion was swarthy as though he had a perpetual tan. He stood just over six feet and was dressed in gray flannels, a blue shirt, and a tweed jacket.

  “How do you feel?” asked Canfield.

  The young man paused and replied softly. “Well, on my twelfth birthday you and Mother got me a new sailboat. I liked that better.”

  The older man returned the younger’s smile. “I guess you did.”

  “Is this it?” The boy placed the briefcase on the table and fingered it.

  “Everything.”

&
nbsp; “I suppose I should feel privileged.”

  “It took an executive order from the president to get it out of State.”

  “Really?” The boy looked up.

  “Don’t be alarmed. I doubt he knows what’s in it.”

  “How come?”

  “A deal was made. There was an understanding.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “I think you will after you read it. No more than ten people have ever seen it in full, and most of them are dead. When we compiled the last quarter of the file, we did it in segments … in nineteen thirty-eight. It’s in the separate folder with the lead seals. The pages are out of sequence and have to be collated. The key’s on the first page.” The major quickly loosened his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Was all that necessary?”

  “We thought it was. As I recall, we used rotating pools of typists.” The major started toward a bedroom door. “I suggest you arrange the pages before starting the last folder.” He entered the bedroom, hastily took off his shirt, and unlaced his shoes. The young man followed and stood in the doorframe.

  “When are we going?” asked the boy.

  “Thursday.”

  “How?”

  “Bomber Ferry Command. Matthews Air Force Base to Newfoundland, Iceland, Greenland, to Ireland. From Ireland, on a neutral, straight through to Lisbon.”

  “Lisbon?”

  “The Swiss embassy takes over from there. They’ll take us to Bern.… We’re fully protected.”

  Canfield, having removed his trousers, selected a pair of light gray flannels from the closet and put them on.

  “What’s Mother going to be told?” asked the young man.

  Canfield crossed into the bathroom without replying. He filled the washbowl with hot water and began lathering his face.

  The boy’s eyes followed him, but he did not move or break the silence. He sensed that the older man was far more upset than he wished to show.

  “Get me a clean shirt from the second drawer over there, will you, please. Just put it on the bed.”

  “Sure.” He selected a wide-collar broadcloth from the stack of shirts in the dresser drawer.