by Lewis Orde
The bend loomed close and Kassler moved the wheel. The Mercedes continued in a perfectly straight line, tires contacting only water. Centrifugal force had overcome friction. Foot still pressed to the floor, Kassler removed his hands from the wheel and closed his eyes.
The Mercedes flashed over lane markings, across the soft shoulder and ripped through the safety barrier. Like a clumsy, wingless aircraft it soared into space as it left the raised autobahn, still in excess of two hundred kilometers an hour. Then it plummeted downward to smash nose first into a plowed field. A plume of mud soared into the air, and moments later a gigantic, booming explosion ripped through the Mercedes, blowing doors open, shattering glass.
Heinrich Kassler felt no pain at all. He had died at the moment of impact, with the steering column embedded in his chest.
*
Roland reached home in the early afternoon, taking a taxi from Heathrow Airport to Stanmore. He entered the house, told the butler that he would accept only telephone calls from his family, and sat by the front window, staring out at the rain-soaked common, smoking and waiting.
Six hours later, when the butler knocked on the door, Roland was still sitting by the window.
‘Sir, a telephone call from Mrs Kassler.’ When Roland turned around, face blank, the butler added, ‘Your daughter, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ Roland walked to the telephone. ‘Yes, Kathy.’
‘We’ve just had some terrible news from Franz’s mother.’ Katherine’s voice sounded choked, as if she were crying. ‘Franz’s father was killed in a car accident a few hours ago.’
Even knowing it would happen, knowing he’d pushed Kassler into a corner from which there was no escape, failed to shield Roland from the shock. Anticipating the news and then receiving it were two different things. In spite of everything Roland felt shattered. ‘What happened?’
‘Somewhere on the autobahn. He went through a barrier at over a hundred miles an hour. The car blew up.’
‘How’s Franz taking it?’
‘He’s here. Do you want to speak to him?’ Without waiting for an answer Katherine put Franz on the line.
‘Franz, I’m terribly sorry to hear about your father. Is there anything I can do?’
‘Thank you. Will you travel to Stuttgart for the funeral?’
‘Of course. We’ll all go. Your father had a lot of friends over here.’
‘I know. I am grateful to them.’
Roland returned to staring out of the front window. Regardless of the unthinkable consequences if he’d done nothing, Roland had pushed a man to suicide, and from the depths of his being he felt disgusted with himself. Yet if he hadn’t done so surely Franz would have been destroyed by the very hatred of his father’s memory that Roland had stressed to Kassler . . . and wouldn’t the pain that Katherine now felt on Franz’s behalf be of a different, more destructive nature had she learned the truth?
When midnight came, and he continued to sit by the front window, he had convinced himself he had followed the only acceptable course. Kassler was dead, and his memory would remain sacred to those who cared.
*
Among the group that flew from England, to attend Heinrich Kassler’s funeral three days later were Roland, Michael and Alf Goldstein. Franz had flown to Germany immediately on hearing of his father’s death to be with his mother. Katherine, with two young children to care for, had decided not to go.
Once during the flight, Goldstein caught Roland’s eye and a silent communication passed between the two men. Goldstein was the only one who knew the truth, knew that Roland had been to Stuttgart, of the final meeting with Kassler. Goldstein would have to figure out for himself what was said, because he instinctively knew Roland would never divulge it.
A large crowd attended the interment, business associates of Kassler, people who had worked for him. And one other man who kept to the rear of the crowd, bundled up in a heavy coat and a hat that partially obscured his face. Peter Hoffbein.
Hoffbein refrained from approaching Roland while he was in Michael’s company. Michael might remember him from New York, that brief meeting at the TWA terminal. After the service, however, when Michael was already in one of the cars that would return the British party to the airport, the German managed to get Roland alone.
‘We have both achieved our ambitions, eh, Mr Eagles? Your family and business are saved embarrassment, as is my country.’
‘Your country can go to hell in a goddamned handcart! You with it!’ Roland snapped, pushing his way roughly past the German.
Hoffbein turned to gaze after Roland, a faint smile on his face. ‘Auf wiedersehen, Mr Eagles. Have a safe flight back to London.’
*
Roland sat with Michael Adler for the return flight to London while Alf Goldstein occupied a seat across the aisle. No one seemed prepared to say anything after the mournful solemnity of the funeral. It was Michael, as the aircraft circled over London, who eventually broke the dreary silence.
‘At the risk of sounding like a vulture—’
‘That’s a bad pun,’ Roland said.
‘Sorry. Probe’s the furthest thing from my mind right now. But I was just thinking . . . what happens to Kassler’s holdings in the group? Hadn’t we better consider that?’
‘They’ll all go to Franz, I imagine. Unless Kassler’s ex-wife wants something.’ The funeral had been the first time Roland had ever met the woman, a simple, down-to-earth soul who probably would never have considered that her ex-husband could have hidden such a past. Roland could understand why she and Kassler hadn’t stayed together. She shunned the limelight; at the funeral it was obvious she felt uncomfortable when photographers turned their cameras on her. She hadn’t even attended Franz’s wedding to Katherine, Roland recalled. Evidently had no desire at all to be a part of life’s big events. ‘Franz has suddenly become a very wealthy and very powerful young man.’
‘I’ll remember to tip my hat next time I see him,’ Michael said.
‘I don’t think you’ll have to.’ Roland turned in his seat to face Michael and lowered his voice. ‘I’m going to push for you to be the next chairman of the Eagles Group.’
‘What?’ Beneath Michael’s amazement at the sudden prospect of his own immediate advancement was concern for Roland. ‘What are you planning to do?’
‘Today put the lid on it for me, Michael. Seeing Kassler lowered into the ground was like the end of an era.’ He gave no hint of what that era had contained, however. ‘I don’t want the chairmanship anymore. I’m offering you my shares.’
‘I haven’t that kind of money. I wish I had. I’d grab them in a flash.’
‘We can come to an arrangement, Michael. All I really want are those three companies I’m running on the side. They mean more to me than anything else.’
The intercom crackled into life to inform passengers the final approach to Heathrow had begun. Roland glanced through the window, saw the Thames snaking its way through London. He tugged at the seat belt to ensure it was fastened, straightened the seat back.
‘It’ll be novel, I’ve got to admit that,’ Michael said. ‘An Eagle in control of Adler’s, and an Adler in control of the Eagles Group.’
‘Not novel. Your name’s already on the group,’ he added, remembering what Heinrich Kassler had told him that night they had agreed on the share deal at Kendall’s.
‘My name?’
‘Don’t you speak any German?’
‘Only the obscenities.’
‘Adler means Eagle. Your father would probably understand.’ The aircraft shuddered slightly as the undercarriage lowered and locked, and Roland made up his mind that if one chapter in his life had ended today, it was also time to close another. ‘Michael, I’d like to see your father. I want to speak to him, before it’s too late. I’ve had plenty of opportunities but I never took them, even when he told me he held no ill feelings toward me. Now I know I’ve got to see him, before I miss my chance forever.’
Roland’s word
s came spilling out in an uneven flood, leaving Michael confused and worried. Was Roland’s emotionalism because of Kassler’s funeral? A total breakdown of his self-control? An abrupt realization of his own mortality and the feeling of having to make peace with everyone he felt he’d wronged? Or did it have something to do with his peculiar action the previous day when he’d thrown the New Year’s Honours List into turmoil by requesting that his name be withdrawn? Michael couldn’t understand that either, the last-minute rejection of the knighthood after he’d been looking forward to it so . . . and without a word of explanation!
‘We’ll go to my father’s house right after we land,’ Michael said, eager to soothe his friend. ‘He’ll probably be very pleased to see you, he doesn’t get many visitors these days.’
The aircraft passed low over the perimeter fence and touched down. Roland stared up at the light above his seat; the time had finally come for him to repair any damage he’d done to the people whose lives he’d touched.
When they cleared customs and immigration, Alf Goldstein drove home alone while Michael took Roland to Albert Adler’s home in Maida Vale. The nurse answered Michael’s knock and showed the two men into the living room where Albert sat in an armchair, a skeletal, gray-haired, sightless figure listening to a play on the radio.
‘You have two visitors, Mr Albert. Your son and his friend.’
Slowly, Albert turned his face toward them. Roland looked first at the useless eyes, then at the white stick that rested against Albert’s chair. That damned white stick! He struggled to shove away the powerful memories it brought back . . . the incident in the schoolyard, and later the accident which led to Catarina’s death.
‘Michael? Where are you?’ Albert struggled to stand and Michael stepped forward to help him. Fingers felt for Michael’s arm, his shoulder, touched his face. ‘This isn’t one of your regular nights for seeing me.’
‘Do I have to come only on a special night? Roland wanted to see you, too.’
‘How are you feeling, Mr Adler?’ Roland took Albert’s right hand in his own, remembering all too well the first time he’d shaken it, his feelings then.
‘I feel fine.’ Animation showed in Albert’s voice as he addressed Roland. He stood a fraction straighter. ‘How about yourself? How’s that big company you’ve created? I always ask Michael about the company whenever he comes to visit me.’ Albert’s right hand remained in Roland’s, while his left hand moved to Roland’s shoulder, steadying himself against the young man. ‘I’d like to hear you tell me all about it.’
‘I’m considering resigning as chairman, selling my shares to your son and recommending to the board and shareholders that he succeed me.’
‘Really?’ Albert’s head swung toward Michael. ‘You’ll be chairman then?’
‘It looks that way.’
‘I know that Michael wanted to work in the United States,’ Albert said, turning back to Roland. ‘He told me you wouldn’t let him. That you needed him here and . . .’ The voice trailed off and Roland wondered whether the old man was overcome by emotion or had his attention lapsed?
Michael took over for his father. ‘I told him what you said, Roland. About staying here because of my father.’
‘That was a very kind gesture,’ Albert said. ‘Thank you for thinking of me. If Michael had gone, I don’t know what I would have done.’
Roland felt his face beginning to burn. ‘I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. That’s why I’m here.’
‘What’s the weather like outside?’ Albert asked, and again Roland feared he’d lost the old man. ‘The nurse told me before that it was raining. Miserable as sin, she said.’
‘It stopped about fifteen minutes ago.’
‘Would you take me for a walk?’ Albert asked his son. ‘You and your friend?’
‘If it’s all right with the nurse.’
‘Damn the bloody nurse!’ Albert spat out with sudden anger, and for an instant Roland recognized a trace of old Monty Adler. ‘I’m perfectly capable of judging whether or not I should go out for a blasted walk!’
With Michael and Roland on either side to guide him, Albert left the house and began walking slowly along the street, head moving from side to side as if he could really see. ‘Don’t you think it smells so clean after a rainfall?’ he asked Roland. ‘So fresh. I always liked the rain, it washed away the dirt.’
‘Yes, it does.’ Roland thought back to Kassler’s funeral in Stuttgart earlier that day. Rain had been falling steadily, and the funeral – the meeting afterwards with Peter Hoffbein – had washed away a ton of dirt, swept it right under the carpet. ‘I asked Michael to bring me here tonight because I wanted to talk to you. I’ve wanted to talk to you a long time, but I kept putting it off. Today, Michael and I went to a funeral’ – he paused as he felt Albert’s hand tighten its grip on his arm – ‘and it made me realize how late I’ve left this meeting with you.’
On the other side of Albert Adler, Michael walked in silence, trying to make some sense out of where Roland was leading. He seemed to have slipped back into that rambling Michael had noticed on the return flight from Stuttgart, seeming to want to make a point but unable to find the words to do so.
‘I remember the first time I met you and Mr Monty, when I brought the sample irons and kettles to your father’s office—’
‘The office where you now work,’ Albert pointed out.
‘That’s right, the office where I now work. I think, deep down, that I was hoping Adler’s would go back on its word so I could make the kind of defiant statement I did by selling all that merchandise in Berwick Street Market. I wanted to show you that I was every bit as good as—’
Albert’s grip on Roland’s arm tightened until it was almost painful. ‘Don’t bother to explain anything. I know exactly who you are. I’ve known these past fourteen years. And I know exactly why you acted the way you did.’
‘What’s all this about?’ Michael broke in; he failed to understand any of the conversation.
Albert stopped walking and turned to Roland, completely ignoring his son. ‘When you took over Adler’s, I realized there was no way I could stop you. You had Michael with you. You’d mounted a successful raid on the shares. All I could do was try to dig up something about you. It was the act of a desperate man, seeking something that might tarnish the image Michael had of you and bring him back to my side. I hired a private investigator—’
‘That man who contacted my bank, even my tailor.’
Albert laughed hoarsely. ‘I hope to hell he did, for the money I paid him. He also went to Margate, turned up wedding documents, birth certificates. Most importantly, he found a change of name deed.’
‘Will someone please tell me what’s going on?’ Michael demanded again.
Albert turned to his son. ‘This man, whom you allied yourself with, is your cousin.’
‘My cousin?’ Michael stared past his father at Roland.
‘My brother’s son.’
‘That’s impossible! Meir died in a car crash in America in 1922.’
‘No, he didn’t,’ Roland contradicted Michael. ‘He died in an air raid in Margate in 1940. My father, Henry Eagles, was your father’s older brother.’
Michael looked back to his father and was astounded to see tears falling from his sightless eyes. ‘Henry,’ Albert murmured, ‘I had almost forgotten what his English name was. My father always called him Meir, his Yiddish name. Never Henry. And I thought it was just another sign of favoritism, his preference of my brother over me.’
Michael opened his mouth, needing more explanation than this. Roland held up a hand and motioned for him to remain quiet, to give his father all the time he wanted to tell the story in his own way.
‘Meir never went to America,’ Albert continued. ‘Never went there at all. That was the story that we – the family – gave to account for his disappearance. You see, he’d met and fallen in love with a girl . . . what was her name now?’
‘Betty,’ R
oland said.
‘That’s right, Betty. A Catholic girl. He wanted to marry her. And my father – whose word was always law in our house, in the firm, everywhere – didn’t know what to do. He was torn apart, not wanting to see a son of his – especially a favored son – marrying out of the religion. That’ – the tears fell more freely now – ‘was when I stepped in. The only time my father ever listened to me, and look what misery it caused.’
‘I know,’ Roland said gently. ‘My father told me everything that happened. You poisoned my grandfather’s mind against my father, didn’t you?’
Albert nodded dismally. ‘I knew what Meir was like, I knew what my father was like. Two powerful personalities so similar they could only exist together if they agreed. The irresistible force and the immovable object. If they ever clashed, there would be no quarter given. So I played on my father’s old-fashioned values, persuaded him to object to Meir’s marriage to this woman. When Meir learned that Mr Monty was against the marriage, we tried to reason with him. My father refused to change his mind. There were terrible arguments and my father told Meir that if he went through with the marriage he would disown him. And Meir answered exactly the way I knew he would: that if that was the way my father wanted it, that was the way it would be, because he was going to marry this woman come hell or high water. One day . . .’ Albert’s voice faltered. ‘One day he just packed his clothes and left. We never saw him again.’
‘He Anglicized his name weeks after the final split,’ Roland said. ‘He went to Margate with my mother, married her there. I don’t think he ever ventured into London from that day, to avoid meeting anyone from the family, anyone he knew. He didn’t want to see any of you again.’
‘And you and my grandfather dreamed up that story about him going to America?’ Michael asked Albert. ‘And followed that up with the tale of how he’d died in a car crash?’
