Hands of the Traitor

by Christopher Wright

  "Don't stop," he shouted to Zoé.

  "But Sophie. We must not leave her." Zoé sounded frantic. "I am a nurse. She is..."

  Matt let the door close and shook his head. "It's an act."

  "Are you sure?"

  It was a very convincing performance. "No, I'm not sure, but we have to stop the Heinmans. It's what Sophie wants."

  There was the option of an elevator down, but Matt knew it would make them vulnerable. Some central control might be able to bring it to a halt and trap them between floors. The carpeted staircase led to the basement area lit by a row of fluorescent strip lights.

  A large metal door blocked off their escape to the road outside. Matt noticed a silver Porsche 935 facing it. The transponder unlocked the doors and the key fitted the ignition. A high cabinet by the exit showed a green and a red light.

  "Press the green button," he called. "I'll drive forward and you jump in."

  He was right about the controls. The green button activated a motor that swung the door up and over the roof of the waiting Porsche. He touched the accelerator. There was fantastic power under his right foot.

  Zoé jumped into the passenger seat and Matt lit up the rear tires. The Porsche screeched up the ramp, seconds before the automatic door swung shut, just as alarm bells rang through the Art Deco Building. Matt let the engine rev more gently, then changed gear. The car leapt forward again, almost catching him unawares.

  "I think this machine beats the caleçon off the old Mini," observed Zoé. "Look, I can see the sign for the airport." She suddenly sounded dispirited. "Why did you leave Sophie behind? She is dying of the heart attack."

  "I told you, she was acting," said Matt, hoping his optimism would be contagious, and hoping that what he said was true.

  The airport was several miles out of Geneva. The disembarking point for taxis and coaches was marked with the traditional yellow lines and warning notices about unattended vehicles. Matt came to a halt, vowing to get a Porsche for himself one day. With Zoé trying to keep up in her high heels he ran into the departure area. A traffic controller stood fussing over a large blue Volvo with a British number plate. They were not even through the doors before the man shouted after them not to leave the Porsche unattended.

  Matt turned, hardly pausing in his rush. "Keep it," he called back. "It's a present! Un cadeau!"

  *

  FRANK HEINMAN bit his lip in frustration. His contact in the white coveralls and airline insignia insisted they should wait no longer. Then as suddenly as he'd disappeared, his son was back, alone and smiling.

  "You remember Hammid Aziz?"

  "Of course," Frank replied coldly. "Now let's get going."

  "Aziz wants to do a deal," said Jason, sounding as though it was all arranged.

  Frank felt his heart beat rise as he recalled that foggy morning by the East River on his way to school. That damn corpse was still rising to the surface. Berlitzan oil was being sold once more to the war mongers.

  "You're not taking it on the Gulfstream, boy."

  Jason held his hands out in innocence. "Would I do that? See, they're empty." He laughed. "You're too suspicious. Search me. You won't find one of those gold cylinders. They're all under Urquet's desk."

  Frank knew his son too well. It was a bluff. Did Jason think he wouldn't do it? Nothing would persuade him to fly on the company jet with one drop of Berlitzan oil aboard.

  "Sure, boy, I'll search you!"

  *

  Zoé saw them first; the two Heinmans arguing together. Matt noticed that the traffic controller had already claimed the Volvo. Two men were preparing to load it onto a low trailer. He hoped they'd be pleased with the gift of Urquet's Porsche.

  Matt could clearly see the old American holding four gold cylinders. He'd been talking angrily with his son who tried to snatch at them, knocking them from his father's hand.

  The small cylinders rolled under a luggage cart. Frank Heinman pulled Jason away, obviously trying to persuade him to leave them there. Jason Heinman struck his father viciously on the arm and retrieved them all, then led the way past a security check point.

  Matt counted three men altogether -- hurrying through the airport workers' gate. When he got there with Zoé, an armed guard blocked the way. The man was insistent. Without passes they were going no further.

  Chapter 28

  "I SAY we forget Urquet's stupid ideas."

  Frank Heinman only wanted one thing -- to get out of Europe and back to the States. He no longer trusted Urquet. The USA was home territory, and home territory was where he'd be safe.

  "Okay, we'll get the hell out," agreed Jason. "Our jet can be ready to leave inside of ten minutes."

  "Are you sure? You can't be sure," protested Frank.

  "I've seen the pilot," explained Jason breathlessly. "That's where I went. I..." He shook his head. "Hell, I'm the DCI president now, not you. You'll understand as soon as we're safe home."

  Frank felt an unexpected paternal responsibility for his son. "Safe home? We'll have a damn good try, the two of us."

  The way onto the apron lay ahead, with several enormous jets parked by the terminal building. Frank blocked his ears as the loud whistle of engines rose to a roar. An elderly DC8 taxied away for takeoff, an airplane that was probably even older than the much smaller DCI Gulfstream. Four transatlantic passenger aircraft parked on the apron dwarfed the executive jet parked beyond them.

  "We wouldn't be running like this if it wasn't for young Rider." Frank tried to stay calm. "But it's not going to make any difference is it? Urquet isn't God. I mean, that was only some crazy plan of his to pretend we were arriving tonight." But he felt doubts niggling deep down. Simon Urquet had proved himself a very able employee over the years. "I can't see a problem in going straight back to the States and saying we were there all along. These foreign places terrify me."

  Jason didn't even turn to acknowledge him.

  Frank kept looking at the large airplanes, and couldn't quite believe what he was seeing when presented with a view from ground level. "It was Hammid Aziz and his sidekick Carlo with you just now, wasn't it?"

  Jason laughed. "Aziz needs to get out of Europe as fast as we do."

  "But not with us. Not on our airplane!"

  "It's all fixed," shouted Jason.

  The DC8 turned away and the noise level dropped. "And the Berlitzan oil?" demanded Frank. "I might allow Aziz on board -- but not the oil."

  "I dropped it in the trash can as we left the lounge."

  He knew his son was lying. "The hell you have. Like you ditched it on the way down through France. I want it. All of it." He stood in front of the aircraft steps. "Believe me, Jason, I mean it."

  Jason held up four gold cylinders. "Okay, it's not worth getting worked up about. I need to be out of here as much as you do."

  Frank snatched them and pushed them into his jacket pocket. "And that's the lot?"

  "The lot," insisted Jason. "And I'll have them back when we get to New Jersey."

  "The hell you will."

  As they climbed the steps to board the old Gulfstream II, Jim Fenhurst the pilot came to the doorway to welcome them aboard. Hammid Aziz, minus Carlo, was already sitting in the back seat of the small cabin.

  "Thank you for offering to take me to America, Mr. Heinman," said Hammid with a slight bow. "You a very charitable man." The look was smooth, the words oily.

  Frank frowned as he felt in his pocket. Berlitzan oil. Just four cylinders left out of twelve. Something bothered him. He had these four from Jason's pocket. There had been more than this in Urquet's office. So where were the others?

  "We fly now?" Aziz sounded anxious.

  Frank nodded to the pilot. "Get this machine in the air -- fast. And don't forget, we're not on board."

  "I no say a word, Mr. Heinman." Aziz clearly thought the words were meant for him. Aziz fastened his lap belt then leaned forward in his seat. "The police, they look for me, too." He laughed, almost to himself. "They not find me her
e with you."

  Jason nodded. "You're safe with us, Hammid. DCI isn't going to let you down." His voice sounded derisive. "DCI never lets anyone down. Isn't that right, Father?"

  "That's enough, Jason." Frank turned to Aziz. "It's not right to mix our business with yours, but you're welcome to share the flight. What about the man with you at Geneva airport?"

  Aziz stopped. "What man?"

  Frank detected something evasive in the answer. There had definitely been two men talking to Jason. "The South American. Carlo something?"

  "Ah, Carlo." Aziz braced himself in his seat as the jet accelerated for takeoff. "Yes, Carlo he come to Geneva. He on his way to Israel now."

  Frank noticed Aziz and Jason exchange glances. The airborne jet banked sharply and he gripped the armrest.

  Berlitzan oil.

  The pressure in his stomach added to the betrayal. His own son had given Berlitzan oil to Carlo.

  DCI needed funds, just as it had before the war when his father turned to Berlin. The new cancer treatment was unworkable, a con. The whole damn world of Domestic Chemicals was nothing but a house of straw -- and the Rider family was the match that had set it alight. He stood up and moved towards his son.

  "Sit down," Jason shouted at him. "You're making me uncomfortable."

  *

  MATT HEARD his name on the public address system. The announcement told him to go to the main information desk. It might be a trick. The local police wouldn't know him by sight, but they might be watching in the lounge to see who came forward to answer the call.

  "I will find out who it is," offered Zoé. "You stay here and watch me. I will signal to you if it is all right."

  "We'll go together." Matt felt resigned to whatever lay ahead. "Our evidence took off with the Heinmans. But you'll see, we'll get justice. Urquet will help us. I've got confidence in that man."

  It was Simon Urquet on the phone. Matt felt a surge of relief. Yes, Urquet agreed, Sophie's heart attack had been exceptionally convincing. It had certainly fooled him. He laughed as he recalled Madame Boissant collapsing on the floor of his office. If they came back to DCI he could give them some news. And please, could he have his Porsche back?

  Matt hesitated. "We'll have to take a taxi. I'll ... tell you about your car later."

  *

  FOR OVER an hour, Frank stared at his son, all the time blaming the English soldier for this mess. As he wiped the palms of his hands in his handkerchief, the tightness in his chest became unbearable. He could see Captain Alec Rider as a young man at the missile site, helping with the death of his father. And now he could see him as the old man in the hospital. All the time he could hear Matt Rider asking questions, making accusations, intruding into DCI's secret past. He glanced at the large signet ring on his middle finger. The green eye below the two initials caught the cabin lights.

  "It's time to stop, Jason. You and Aziz are bastards!"

  Jason must have smelt it. The faintest scent. He leapt to his feet. "Berlitzan oil!"

  Frank kept his hand deep in his jacket pocket. "I'm opening them. One at a time. You're a fool, boy, and you deserve to die. We all deserve to die."

  Hammid Aziz jumped from his seat in alarm. "What is matter?" he shouted. "Something bad is smelling."

  Frank let his anger take full control. Anger beyond even his comprehension.

  Jason seemed to know what to do. He turned to Aziz. "I'm your friend. Don't get angry with me. Kill my father, but don't kill me."

  Frank felt his body convulse as he breathed in the fumes. From his pocket he produced the four cylinders, the cap already off one. Quickly he unscrewed the other three. His injured arm gave him no problems. It was as though the aroma from the precious oil was having a healing effect on the wartime wound.

  "I'm getting the axe," shouted Jason. "There's one by the emergency door. I'll kill the old bastard!"

  The open cylinders fell to the floor and Berlitzan oil poured from each one, foaming as it ate its way through the thin carpet. The smell in the small aircraft cabin was overpowering. Frank coughed and put his handkerchief to his mouth.

  *

  TOM GARCIA had been copilot on the DCI Gulfstream for eight months. The jet was twenty years old and smelly. He'd expected something better when he took the job. They even had to fly with one eye on the Azores as they crossed the Atlantic, just in case ... He turned round in his seat. There was a lot of noise coming from the passenger cabin. Shouting and screaming.

  "I'm going back." He tapped Jim Fenhurst on the shoulder. "Sounds like they're having some sort of fight."

  The emergency axe sliced across the doorway, narrowly missing his arm.

  "Put your masks on," Jason Heinman shouted frantically. "Breathing masks!"

  Tom Garcia stared in horror as Jason attacked his elderly father with the axe. As the blows fell, blood spurted across the cabin. This was madness. He turned to Jim Fenhurst and saw he'd put his oxygen mask on. The arrogant Jim Fenhurst, the regular pilot for DCI. Thinking about Jim Fenhurst made him resentful. He should have been given the job of senior man.

  This trip had been trouble from the start. Jinxed. He'd known it when they got to Geneva and found he was involved in another DCI mess. Something highly confidential. Top secret staff movements.

  Far below lay the Atlantic. They were eighty minutes into the flight. He could hear Jim Fenhurst shouting into the radio requesting an emergency landing -- if they could get back to the coast of France.

  "The passengers have gone berserk," Jim screamed. "The president's attacking everyone."

  Tom Garcia watched the new DCI president swing the gleaming blade down on Frank Heinman's handless body. The head rolled across the floor as the aircraft banked sharply. Blood poured across the carpet, drenching the walkway. Tom kicked at a severed hand on the floor and noticed a large gold ring on one of the fingers, glinting green. He put his head between his knees to be sick.

  As he raised his head, the axe fell.

  *

  JASON HEINMAN threw the axe to the floor and grabbed the spare mask. His father had been trouble, a man who had delivered violence -- and the old fool had deserved to die by it.

  Aziz had demanded repayment of the loan when he could easily have waited. Jason picked up the axe again and held the blood-soaked handle firmly as he struck. The axe was a fitting end for Aziz. The stupid copilot was dead, his torso lying across the walkway. The pilot sat alone in the cockpit, flying the plane back to land. The pilot was a good man who had put his breathing mask on. Jason tried desperately to like him. It had worked in the Volvo, balanced on the edge of the cliff. Love your neighbor. He was winning. The fresh air from the mask started to clear his rage. Where was the Berlitzan oil now?

  He turned in the copilot's seat and saw the large hole being burnt by the corrosive oil, through the carpet and through the aluminum decking. Acrid smoke rose from deep inside the structure of the aircraft, like a crazy experiment in a chemistry class. Suddenly the floor of the pressurized cabin exploded downwards into space.

  The executive jet twisted onto its side. Jim Fenhurst struggled to regain control as the Gulfstream spiraled wildly through the sky. With a combination of expertise and strength, he got the plane onto a level flight, on a bearing towards France.

  Jason went back into the cabin and knelt on the floor, trying to pull the ring from his father's severed hand. The ring was tight and the blood made it slippery. He felt too angry to care as he ripped the mask from his face and breathed in deeply.

  Berlitzan oil. It could have made him a fortune.

  Screaming with rage he returned to the cockpit and swung the axe once more.

  *

  AIR TRAFFIC control reported losing the Domestic Chemicals Gulfstream II from their screens sixty miles north west of Bordeaux. The water there was too deep for recovery of the wreckage but the rescue services would go through the formality of calling out a helicopter and two boats to search for survivors.

  Chapter 29

&nbs
p; THE FOUR met in the hotel bar the next morning for a late breakfast. Matt, Zoé, Simon Urquet, and Sophie. Sophie looked the most wide awake of the lot. After her playacting she'd gone straight back to her hotel to sleep soundly, leaving the others to make statements to the police.

  "I imagine you'll be busy for a bit," said Matt, pouring Urquet a coffee. "Are there any Heinmans left to run DCI?"

  Simon Urquet stirred his cup. "There's someone called Victor McDowell. His mother, Karen, was Albert Heinman's secretary in the war. Albert didn't use his desk just for work; he got Karen McDowell pregnant on top of it one evening after work. Albert Heinman was killed in France before the baby was born, but his wife provided for Karen and the baby generously enough. A single lump payment made in nineteen forty-four, invested wisely, and a small apartment in Queens. But the lawyers made sure neither Ms. McDowell nor her son could ever touch company money."

  "But if Victor McDowell is a Heinman, he could take over DCI," said Matt.

  "Victor McDowell is sixty years old. Officially, the Heinman line is dead." Urquet slumped back in his chair. "But, yes, I think there could be a problem. Karen McDowell is still alive, and Victor rang me early this morning when he saw the news on CNN. He says his mother lodged copies of certain papers with her lawyer in nineteen forty-four, to be opened on her death. Let's hope it's nothing to do with the Berlitzan Project. I can't say I took to Victor McDowell when we met last year."

  "So who's in charge of DCI at the moment?" asked Matt.

  "It looks like it's me in the interim. Milton Miller is due out of hospital soon. He's coming down here to help me run DCI from Switzerland for the next few months. Nearly all our manufacturing is done here, and a major pharmaceutical is interested in buying the New York side of the business." Urquet yawned. He'd probably spent the night at the office taking emergency action to save the company. "Whatever happens, I'm determined to keep DCI solvent."

  Matt wondered whether to mention the reason for Miller's accident, but felt it best to remain silent. It was, after all, Miller's fault.

  "My life has gone in a big circle," Sophie said, leaving her coffee untouched. "As a young woman in the war I saw how terrible those little gold cylinders could be. And now they were working their evil again."

  Zoé put her hand on Sophie's thin shoulder. "The Berlitzan oil is all at the bottom of the sea with the 'Einmans."