by Warren Adler
"We have a serious question before us," Rudi said, his voice lowering as he prepared to make his case. It was, of course, the biggest moment of his life.
"I have located a batch of pure plutonium, allegedly from the American missing source, with the promise of more, if we can move this properly." Little beads of sweat had popped out on his upper lip and the clothes under his jacket must have been soaked. Albert's face remained impassive as the other participants leaned over the table, their ears greedy to get the full portent of the message. It had been intended as a bombshell, and the Baron could see that Rudi had achieved his effect.
"I have the source and I have the buyer." He looked slowly into the faces. "And I have been stalling them for months."
"Who?" It was Adolph inquiring in his odd sing-song.
"The seller, a Bolivian connection."
"And the buyer?"
"A South African. Payment in gold."
"And the ultimate source?"
"That is not our business."
A group murmur erupted around the table. Albert's face was impassive. Rudi had not given the Baron the details of the proposed sale, saving it for the right moment, for now. Thus, for the first time, Rudi was actually acting on his own.
"Little downside risk," Rudi continued, the voice rising again. Tiny red blotches had appeared on his cheeks and the sweat line had also risen on his forehead. He did not look once into his brother Albert's eyes.
"Our source insists he can locate more, if we can make the disposal without trouble," Rudi said, unable to conceal his pride.
"And can we?" It was Wilhelm, ever the cautious gnome.
"Payment in gold. Transportation arranged. Simple."
Wilhelm shook his head in affirmation. He liked that. Gold moved smoothly in world markets. Eastern Europe was hungry for gold and the East Germans had worked out unique ways to buy gold for other commodities that could be turned easily into Western or Japanese currency.
There were, of course, many unarticulated questions. That did not mean that they required answers. Questions were only raised that could not be answered by each of the men in the room, privately, from their experience of the unique trade. The Baron, too, had already answered most of them in his mind. Nevertheless, there were questions that had to be asked. Rudi reveled in fielding them, his answers without hesitation, carefully and patiently explained. Would the Russians and the Americans move jointly to stop the transaction? Like all bureaucracies, the KGB and CIA had proven their inefficiency, particularly the CIA, in letting the goods get loose in the first place. And the connection would not have moved if he felt the timing was not right. The missing plutonium was both baffling and embarrassing to the Americans. Rudi outlined what seemed the logical scenario. There were indications of both a Saudi and South African involvement. An odd couple, but logical. With the Saudis involved, the Americans would be afraid to move. The South Africans had already developed the technology but, Rudi speculated, the detonation would take place in the vast Saudi desert, a reminder to the world that the Saudis could now protect their oil fields. Quid pro quo on the vastest scale imaginable. Far beyond even the wildest fancies of generations of von Kassels.
"And the price?" Wilhelm asked.
Rudi smiled, showing remarkably white teeth. It was only then that he looked at Albert, whose eyes seemed to be turned inward now. He did not acknowledge his brother's stare.
"One billion," Rudi said.
"And our profit?" Wilhelm asked.
"Two hundred fifty million."
There seemed to be a single collective gasp around the table.
"A quarter of a billion," Siegfried interpolated with sarcasm. Even the Baron was impressed.
"My God," Adolph cried.
"It is the easiest, most profitable deal we will ever make," Rudi said. He had finally taken out a handkerchief and swept his face. Then he settled back and poured himself a cup of coffee, his self-satisfaction fully revealed.
"You are to be congratulated," Wilhelm said. Rudi flushed a deep red, indicating his further pleasure. But the broad clues of conflict between the brothers were not lost on the others. All eyes turned to Albert, who seemed to emerge slowly from a deep trance. Eyes narrowing, his lips tightened, and although his color did not change, a nerve palpitated at the edge of his jaw.
"It is my deal," Rudi snapped, drawing their attention back to him. "Albert was against it."
The Baron felt his old heart churn, a brief flash of pain. Noting this, Karla proferred a pillbox. I am all right, his eyes said, as he put two tablets on his tongue and waited for the effect. It was a conflict that had to be resolved one way or another, he told himself. In his mind, he totally agreed with Rudi. Indeed, the once embattled Rudi was rising swiftly in his esteem. Perhaps if he were leaner, less like Helga, the Baron mused. Rudi raised his eyes to his father who nodded deliberately. It was a private gesture, but Albert had seen it, turning his eyes away swiftly as if the knowledge was stolen.
"Against it?" Adolph asked.
Albert nodded coolly.
"I acted on my own," Rudi interjected. He had received courage from his father's affirmation.
"True," Albert agreed.
"Everything is in place. All we need now is permission." Rudi caught himself. "Affirmation."
"I am against it," Albert said. He did not look at any of the faces in the room, staring straight ahead, finding knowledge or courage from some source known only to himself. There was no need to ask "Why?" It simply demanded an answer. They were all waiting for it to be forthcoming. Albert, after all, owed them an explanation, although he had never been compelled to explain before.
If the Baron's youngest son felt surrounded, he showed no sign. This was not a business issue. On the face of it, one had to accept Rudi's assertions of minimum risk. The modus operandi was no different in concept than in the days of his grandfather, and before. Weaponry was weaponry. He was sure that the others sitting around the table could define the issue clearly in their own minds. The only criterion was potential profit, and that had been resoundingly met. So why refuse to deal, they might be asking themselves, suspecting, as he did, that something profound had altered or was altering Albert.
The gestures of the men, even the air and the smoke expelled from burning cigarettes seemed frozen, instantly etched, as Albert gathered his thoughts.
"I was against it when Rudi first broached it. I am against it now," he said, lifting his head slowly to observe the alert eyes. Again he paused. "It opens an entirely different path."
The Baron felt the pain begin again, but it seemed beyond the physical. No medicine could anesthetize the pain he felt now watching his younger son.
"Von Kassels are not immune to destruction," Albert said, his mind groping for the required nuance. He, too, the Baron knew, had no illusions about his position. The argument was, as it should have been, aimed at himself.
"If you traffic in doomsday weapons, you court your own doomsday," Albert continued, a flicker of animation showing on his face. "Once you move those ingredients, the heart of the doomsday weapons, out of the mainstream of political stability, you tempt fate. Some crackpot will order their use." Albert paused.
"That's not grounds," Rudi interjected slyly. "Not for us. If they don't obtain it through us, they'll find other sources, another connection."
Come to the heart of it, the Baron demanded inside himself. He had expected the confrontation to be difficult, and now that it had come it proved less than bearable. He felt the pounding in his faulty heart, waiting for the constriction, his fingers poised on his pill case. Karla watched him. He knew his complexion had paled.
"We must assume their use." Albert snapped.
"That is never our problem," Rudi said, ejaculating the words in staccato order.
"We have not yet devised a von Kassel spaceship. If the planet is blown up, the von Kassels go with it. The kill power of all those bombs can destroy half the earth."
"Then there is still the o
ther half," Rudi shot back.
"That is the most ridiculous stupidity ever to come from your mouth, Rudi," Albert said with irritation. Siegfried smiled broadly.
"The tactic is no longer useful, good brother," Rudi said calmly, although the opening pores on his face told another story. Albert swallowed hard, revealing his own tension for the first time. He stood up, paced the room, looked out into the sunlight, squinting into the brightness. Even Albert, cool under all sorts of pressure, had to labor to control his inner agitation. He turned a sharp glance at his father, but the Baron turned away.
"I'm genuinely sorry that you don't see the logic of my argument," Albert said finally. "I have studied the potential use of these weapons in great detail. A lesser power, a fanatical group, will start with intimidation. Then will come a small escalation. Finally a larger one. Then the great powers, to whom world stability is essential, will have to react. There are presently eight thousand bombs activated and ready. Some corner of this earth may escape destruction. But which corner?
"Geopolitical speculation," Rudi said.
"That's a primitive argument, based on antiquated concepts," Albert said.
"A quarter of a billion profit is not antiquated," Rudi said, forcing a smile, hoping to engender a response. But the men around the table remained silent. It was still too early to take sides.
"The argument transcends profit."
"Nothing transcends profit," Rudi smirked.
"What good is it in the grave?"
"That's just the point," Rudi squealed, standing up, warming to what he perceived was an opening wedge for a victorious onslaught. "You can't in the first place convince any of us that the bombs will be used or that it will trigger a world conflagration. That is the nub of it. You're being a doomsayer, a..." He hesitated, then shot the strongest arrow in his quiver. "A moralist."
"What's wrong with that?" It was Siegfried, jumping up, no longer able to contain himself. His fingers shook. Obviously, he knew he was stepping out of line. "There is a limit to everything. Even to this barbaric enterprise."
"Sit down Siegfried," Rudi said, without anger, as if he were talking to a child. Siegfried glared at him, then yielded. So he has finally taken his revenge, the Baron thought, with rising pride in his second son, who was now shedding his childhood hurts.
"Someone down the line might have made the same argument against gunpowder. Or any new technological advance that increases the methods of destruction. Once we get into that cast of mind, we might as well write ourselves out of this business." He looked at Albert. "You are wrong. Your position is weak. Untenable in fact.... "His words trailed off. It was not his place to go further. Everyone in the room knew that, especially the Baron. Albert's weakness was available for all of them to observe. Was he fit to bring them into tomorrow? That was the essential point. He had arranged this confrontation merely as a test and Albert had failed. The consequences of the weapon were never an issue for the von Kassels to trouble themselves about. Those that did were weeded out, forced aside. He had had such great hopes for his youngest son, easily the most able and brilliant of his progeny. But the essential ingredient was missing. He felt the edges of a depression moving into his mind.
Albert had sat down again and it was Rudi who was standing, offering his bulk as a kind of symbolic victory monument. He had no doubt that he had won, and he could not resist the plucking of the fruits.
"I intend to go through with this deal," he said, glaring at his brother. "And I demand your cooperation."
"I am against it," Albert said, the words sharp and clear. He stared at his brother, who was the first to yield, showing his discomfort with a deep flush that crept up his neck and covered the underpart of his chin. The Baron noted the inelegant reaction, the inadequate sense of command. Perhaps if he and Albert could discuss the issue at length, he wondered, holding out some hope to himself that he was witnessing merely a mild misunderstanding. The fact was that the deal could not be fully consummated without Albert's cooperation. The others would not respond to Rudi without a clear mandate from either Albert or the Baron.
"It is wrong," Albert said finally. "It is barbaric. Siegfried is correct. There has got to be some kinship with humanity." So it was out. Silence hung heavy in the room.
Younger, the Baron might have been prompted to respond. Now his response was inward, a sudden flash of pain. He opened the pillbox and let another two pills dissolve on his tongue. He felt his strength run out of him swiftly like air out of a punctured tire. His eyelids felt heavy and he could not summon the energy to keep them open. Somehow the matter would have to be resolved. But not now. Not now. He was slipping away, escaping perhaps. Somewhere far away he heard familiar voices.
"It is too much for him," Karla whispered.
"Later..." someone said.
"He will make up his mind in due time," he heard Karla say. He heard vague movements, footsteps, muffled sounds and then what he knew was the cool hand of his sister, soothing against his forehead, then her cheek, also cool, pressed against his.
"Rest now, my darling," the voice, Karla's, said, comforting, chasing pain. "They have gone." He must not die now, he told himself, commanded himself, urging his will. As he had willed himself to preserve the von Kassels, by any means, without guilt, without remorse, as he had willed himself to destroy Emma....
Emma. He thought he had obliterated her from his mind. Was the will collapsing as well, along with the decaying muscles and tissue? He tried to push her image back, to place the sand bags against the dyke of conscience. He shivered, feeling again the icy blueness of the lake, the repeated divings under the capsized boat, the murk below as his eyes saw the milky face and the sightless eyes mocking him.
The von Heimbergs like the von Kassels were descendents of the Old Order. Although they lived a good distance away from each other in the country, they would invariably meet during the season in Tallinn, both families occupying huge houses in the fashionable section restricted to the Baronial families, the pecking order dependent upon the distance of descent. The von Heimbergs and the von Kassels were, therefore, social equals.
Even as a child, he had remembered the formalities when parents met, eying each other's offspring. The Baronial families intermarried or, like his sister, married peers in the fatherland. In Emma's case, it was simply unfortunate that she passed across his line of vision at exactly the wrong time.
They had been living in town while the main house in the country was being rebuilt after the fire. Wolfgang had simply disappeared into the Soviet Union, leaving a brief note of farewell. Karla had returned to her husband in Germany. His mother's frail mental state was deteriorating badly under the shock of his father's death. When she was lucid, she talked only of impending death.
"Will it be cold in the earth?"
"'No, Mother."
"You will bury me as close to your father as possible."
"Of course, Mother."
"Not the usual distance. Closer."
She was an uneducated woman. The Baronial families were less than fastidious in the education of their daughters, while on the sons were lavished the best tutors from Germany. The result was women steeped in superstition, spending their time attending to family matters, gossip, and games.
"They are good as breeders only," his grandfather had said. "Pick them like you pick horses. Look at their bloodlines. Then at their teeth and flanks."
Charles' grandmother had died early and the old Baron had never remarried. Perhaps it was that comment that had prompted Charles' decision to choose Emma. She had excellent teeth and a long, lean flank. And her bloodlines, by Baronial standards, were impeccable.
The decision was to earn him quick regrets, and he attributed it to the chaos of the times, which prompted hasty actions. Everything was uncertain in Estonia now. Many of the old families had sold their lands and headed West, back to Germany. The Estonians, having bested the Bolsheviks, were pressing and organizing for independence.
Caught
in the middle, barely tolerated, the Baronial families had only two alternatives: to flee or wait hopefully. Charles, now the family leader, chose to wait. There was no family left, only his feeble-minded mother. The warehouses had been stripped and destroyed. The workers had stolen everything that could be moved, including the gold and currency that had been so fastidiously guarded in the family vaults in the deep cellars under the older portions of the house. Those deposits credited to the family in German, Swiss and British banks were intact, but inflation had wiped out most of their value, further diminishing the family fortune.
Fortunately, the new Estonian constitution then being drafted granted the Baronial families equal rights, something that they had never allowed the Estonians. Statehood for Estonia seemed inevitable by international fiat, and the new leaders, with an eye to international opinion, discouraged all acts of revenge against their former masters. Charles moved quickly to take advantage of the situation, rebuilding the country house and warehouses and using the remains of the von Kassel fortune to resurrect the business.
The old family connections were still intact. The various sellers and buyers in the arms business were a tight-knit group and Charles was quickly able to regain a footing in the industry. The White Russians were still fielding an army. The Germans were desperate for cash, selling their huge caches of arms from their defeated armies for a fraction of their worth. And the Estonians and Latvians were forming armies for their embryonic countries.
But restoration of the family wealth was not enough to insure its survival, not in von Kassel terms. He needed a breeder and the point grew more obsessive as he flogged himself in the pursuit of business.
It was at the funeral of his mother that the idea of Emma crossed his mind. It was a small funeral held in the rebuilt family chapel in the country. With the shrinking of the Baronial families, who normally turned out en masse to pay tribute to the passing of one of their own, funerals were no longer events of mammoth reunion. The von Heimbergs attended, seizing every opportunity to exhibit their unmarried daughter, who was extremely pretty with her soft olive skin and delicate features fringed by striking chestnut-colored hair.
