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Cut And Run
Carla Neggers


The largest uncut diamond in the world, the Minstrel's Rough, is little more than legend.Brought into the Pepperkamp family in 1548, it has been handed down to one keeper in each generation. Juliana Fall has inherited its splendor from her uncle–and, unwittingly, its legacy of danger. Juliana's mother wants nothing more than to bury her memories of the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands.But with the diamond in her daughter's keeping, Juliana's safety becomes entangled in the secrets of the past. There are others who seek the Minstrel's Rough. A U.S. senator who will risk his career and face the ultimate scandal to claim its value. A Nazi collaborator willing to do anything to possess it.And a Vietnam war hero turned journalist, chasing the story of this mythic stone. Now Juliana has only two choices: uncover the past before they do–or cut and run.









CARLA NEGGERS


Cut and Run











For Joe, Kate and Zachary—

and special thanks to Bill and Aunt Dini.




Contents


Prologue (#ua1dcf23a-46df-5b47-acda-fa07c77111ca)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven




Prologue


Delftshaven, The Netherlands

Alone in her small dressing room, Juliana Fall took a handful of ice chips and rubbed them on her cheeks and the back of her neck. She was so unbelievably hot! But it was her own fault. She’d left her long, pale blond hair down and had chosen a dress of heavy winter white silk—and the tiny seventeenth-century stone church had been her idea. It was packed with people. Her manager had fought her choice for weeks. Why make her Dutch premiere in a church with limited seating capacity when she could have had the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam? Was she crazy? No, she’d said, just adamant. She’d refused to explain that the church, in the old Delftshaven section of Rotterdam, was the one in which her parents had been married. It was the truth, but it sounded too sentimental for a rising international star in the highly fickle, competitive world of concert pianists.

Even at twenty-three, she was scrutinized not just for how she performed, but for what she wore, said, did—for everything. Already she was being touted as the most beautiful pianist in the world. One critic had raved about “her dark emerald eyes, which fill with passion even as she gives her trademark distant smile.” If only he’d paid as much attention to her interpretation of the Mozart sonata she’d performed.

She laughed, wondering what he’d say if he could see her smudged mascara and the sweat that had matted her dress to her skin and dampened her hair.

“Juliana?”

Johannes Peperkamp smiled sheepishly from the doorway. He was her uncle, a balding, gentle old man, tall and all bones inside his ill-fitting suit, with a big nose and a permanent soft, sad look in his blue eyes. He was sixty-six but looked eighty. Until that afternoon, he and Juliana had never met. He’d taken the train from Antwerp, where he was one of the world’s preeminent diamond cutters, and had taken his niece into his arms as if he’d known her all her life. He’d told her he owned all her recordings and liked to listen to them at dawn, when it was quiet. What a change from his younger sister! Wilhelmina Peperkamp was a stout, difficult woman. She lived in Delftshaven, one of the few sections of Rotterdam not demolished by the 1940 German bombings that had led to the capitulation of The Netherlands and the long Nazi occupation. Aunt Willie had been so annoyed at Juliana’s ignorance of Dutch that she’d refused to speak English for their first thirty minutes together. Catharina, Juliana’s mother and the youngest Peperkamp by thirteen years, had sat in quiet humiliation. She must have known—Juliana certainly did—that she was the one being criticized for not teaching her American daughter Dutch.

Juliana recovered from her surprise at seeing her uncle, and the indignity of being caught rubbing ice on her face. But she reminded herself that he was family. “Uncle Johannes, hello, what’re you doing back here?”

“I’ve brought you something,” he said in his own excellent English.

Juliana winced. Now? She had fifteen minutes to pull herself together for the second half of the concert. She snatched up a hand towel as her uncle withdrew a small, crumpled paper bag from inside his jacket. What was she supposed to say? The Peperkamps mystified her, and she wondered if her idea for a family reunion had been a good one after all. She’d already had to accept the mediocre instrument, the lousy acoustics, and, although the church was sold out, the comparatively small audience. But now the Peperkamps themselves were proving to be quite a handful. Her mother was obviously ill at ease with her older brother and sister, whom she rarely saw, and hadn’t had much to say since arriving in Rotterdam the night before. And Aunt Willie was impossible. After getting off to an inauspicious start with her niece, she’d snored through most of the first half of the concert.

And now this.

Johannes thrust the bag at her. “Please—open it.”

“But, I…”

She couldn’t bring herself to argue. Her uncle looked so eager, even desperate. Unprepossessing as his gift seemed, it meant a great deal to him, and with the death of his wife Ann a few years ago and no children of his own, Juliana guessed he was a lonely man. For the first time, she felt the weight of being the last of the Peperkamps. She could indulge him.

With the towel around her neck, she stuck her hand in the bag and pulled out a heavy object wrapped in faded purple velvet. Her uncle’s water blue eyes glittered as he urged her on. She unwrapped the velvet. In a moment, she held in her hand a large, cool rock. But her pulse had quickened, and she lifted her eyes to her old uncle, licking her lips, which had suddenly gone dry.

“Uncle Johannes, this isn’t—tell me this isn’t a diamond.”

The old man shook his head solemnly. “I can’t do that, Juliana.”

“But it’s too big to be a diamond!”

“It’s what we call rough. It has never been touched by a cutter’s tool.”

Juliana quickly wrapped up the stone and stuck it back in the bag. For four hundred years, diamonds had consumed the Peperkamps. They’d entered the trade in the late sixteenth century when Jewish diamond merchants had fled the Spanish Inquisition and arrived in more tolerant Amsterdam. The Peperkamps were Gentiles. Why they’d taken up one of the few trades open to Jews—and dominated by them, even today—remained a mystery. But it wasn’t one that interested Juliana. She considered diamonds ordinary and bland. Even ones like the Breath of Angels, which her Uncle Johannes had cut and was now in the Smithsonian, bored her. An exquisite stone, everyone said. She supposed it was, for a diamond.

“I’m flattered, Uncle Johannes, deeply flattered. But this must be a valuable stone, and I just can’t accept it. It would go to waste on me.”

“Juliana, this is the Minstrel’s Rough.”

“The what?”

A look of anguish, but not surprise, overcame the old man. “Then Catharina has never told you. I’ve often wondered.”

She listened for a note of criticism of her mother in his tone, looked for it in his expression, but saw none. Perhaps he knew as well as his niece that Catharina Peperkamp Fall rarely discussed the first twenty-five years of her life, the years during which she’d grown up in Amsterdam, with her daughter—or anyone else. When Juliana had complained to her father about her mother’s reticence, Adrian Fall had nodded sympathetically, for he too had been shut out from so much of his wife’s early life. But he said that it was Catharina’s past, not Juliana’s or his.

“She won’t approve of my telling you now, even less of my giving you the Minstrel,” Johannes Peperkamp went on heavily. “But I can’t let that stop me. I have a responsibility to future generations of our family—and to past generations.”

Juliana was beginning to question whether she should take her uncle seriously. Was he just a crazy old man? And what she was holding just a hunk of granite? But he seemed so intense, and his guttural accent lent a mysterious quality to his words. She said carefully, wiping her jaw with a corner of the towel, “I don’t understand, Uncle Johannes.”

“The Minstrel’s Rough has been in the Peperkamp family for four hundred years. We—your family—are its caretakers.”

“Is it—” Her voice was hoarse, her hands trembling as they never did when she performed. “Is it valuable?”

He smiled sadly. “It used to be that any Peperkamp could have identified what you now hold in your hand. On today’s scales, Juliana, the Minstrel is a D grade, the highest grade for a white diamond. Few are one hundred percent pure and colorless, but the Minstrel comes as close as any rough can. In the business, we call it an ice white.”

“What will happen when it’s cut?”

“If it’s cut, Juliana. Not when. For four hundred years we’ve guarded the Minstrel’s Rough from that very end. Surprising, isn’t it? A family of diamond cutters protecting a rough from their own tools. We’ve had four centuries to study this stone, and should it ever have to be cut, we know its secrets. I have markings, which I will teach you. They will tell a cutter precisely where to strike in order to preserve weight without sacrificing beauty. But you must understand: the value of the Minstrel lies not only in what it will be when cut, but also in its legend.”

“Jesus, Uncle Johannes. What legend?”

“In 1581, when the Minstrel’s Rough first came to the Peperkamps, it was the largest uncut diamond in the world—and the most mysterious.”

“But that was a long time ago…”

“Not so long. The Minstrel’s Rough is still the largest and most mysterious uncut diamond in the world.”

Juliana’s heart beat faster than it ever did when she had preconcert jitters. “Why mysterious?”

“Because its existence has been rumored for centuries, but never confirmed. What you are holding, my Juliana, only Peperkamps have seen for four hundred years. No one else can prove it exists.”

“Uncle Johannes, I don’t even like diamonds.”

“Your mother’s influence,” he said gently, and smiled. “I understand, but it doesn’t matter. In each generation, one Peperkamp has served as caretaker for the stone. In mine, it was I. In your generation, Juliana—”

“Please, don’t.”

He took her hand. “In yours, there is only you.”



Johannes Peperkamp returned to his seat in the wooden pew beside his two sisters. What a trio they made. At fifty-one, Catharina was still as slim and pretty as a girl, her eyes dark green like her daughter’s, but rounder, softer, and her hair still as pale blond as it had been forty years ago when her big brother had whisked her out on the canals to go ice skating. Johannes wished she would smile. But he understood: she was protective of Juliana, afraid he or Willie would let something slip about a part of their shared past that she’d never told her daughter. And he already had, hadn’t he? The Minstrel’s Rough, however, had not been a slip. He’d planned what he’d tell Juliana for weeks abut had always hoped she’d already know, that her mother had long ago related the story of the Minstrel.

He should have known better.

Averting his eyes from those of his younger sister, guiltily sensing the fear in them, Johannes smiled briefly at Wilhelmina. Ah, Willie. She’d never change! She was as plain as ever with her stout figure and square features, with her blue eyes of no distinction and her blondish hair, never as pale and perfect as Catharina’s, now streaked almost completely white. She was sixty-four years old and didn’t give a damn if she were a hundred.

Willie might have approved of his visit backstage with their niece, but, never one to hide anything, she’d have insisted he tell Catharina. How could he? How could he explain his ambivalence, the duty he felt to generations of Peperkamps coupled with the horror he felt at what the Minstrel’s Rough had come to mean to his own generation—to Catharina and Wilhelmina, to himself? Their father had passed the Minstrel on to him in 1945 under circumstances even more difficult than those Johannes now faced. How could he ignore the responsibility with which he’d been entrusted? He’d had to give the stone to Juliana. There was no other choice.

You could have thrown it into the sea, Catharina would tell him again, as she had so long ago.

Perhaps he should have listened to her then.

And Willie—dear, blunt Wilhelmina. She’d make him tell Catharina and then she’d make him tell Juliana everything, not just what he’d wanted to tell her. What you are holding, my Juliana, only Peperkamps have seen for four hundred years. No one else can prove it exists. They were the words his father had told Johannes when he’d first seen the Minstrel as a boy.

Now they were a lie.

Yet what did it matter? The past was done.

Juliana returned to the makeshift stage and smiled radiantly at her audience, and Johannes felt a surge of pride and admiration. After the shock he’d given her, she’d composed herself and began the second half of her concert with the same blazing energy, the same flawless virtuosity, as she had the first half.

Within minutes Catharina elbowed her older sister in the ribs. “Willie—Willie, wake up!”

Wilhelmina sniffed. “I am awake.”

“Now you are. But a minute ago your eyes were closed.”

“Bah.”

“No more snoring. Juliana’ll hear you.”

“All right.” Wilhelmina sat up straight in the uncomfortable pew, for her a major concession. “But all these sonatas sound the same to me.”

“You’re hopeless,” Catharina said, but Johannes, at least, could hear the affection in her voice.

If the past had not been what it was, thought the old diamond cutter, feeling better, Juliana never would have been born. She’s our consolation—Catharina’s, mine, even Willie’s. And now, through her, not just the Peperkamp tradition but the Peperkamps themselves would continue.




One


Len Wetherall settled back against the delicate wrought-iron rail in front of the Club Aquarian, enjoying the sunny, cold mid-December afternoon. He was a people watcher, and there was no place better to watch people than New York. Here, for a change, he could do the watching; he wasn’t always the one who was watched. He was three inches shy of seven feet tall, an ex-NBA superstar, black, rich, and a man of exquisite taste and enormous responsibilities. He knew he didn’t blend in on the streets of SoHo any more than he did anywhere else. But here no one gave a damn.

People were moving fast, even for the city. Len watched a pink-haired woman in a raccoon coat swing around the corner, covering some ground. She had on red knit gloves and red vinyl boots, and her mouth was painted bright red. Her eyes—

Len straightened up, buttoning one button of his camel wool overcoat. Her eyes were the darkest emerald green, and he’d recognize them anywhere.

“J.J. Pepper.”

When she spotted him, she grinned, her teeth sparkling white against her bright lips. Even in the harsh afternoon light, her eyes were as mysteriously alluring as everything else about her. She came right up to him, stood on her tiptoes, and he bent down and planted a kiss on her overly madeup cheek. His wife, Merrie, couldn’t understand why J.J. wanted to paint up her hair and face like that. “She must be a real light blond underneath that colored mousse she uses,” Merrie had said. “And I’ll bet her skin’s perfect. Why would she want to cover up all that?”

Why, indeed? But Len had learned not to ask J.J. Pepper too many questions. She’d just give him one of her dazed looks, as if they weren’t operating on the same planet, and avoid a straight answer. He’d asked her once how old she was, and she’d said, “Oh—around thirty.” Like she was making herself up. The colored hair, the vintage clothes, the gaudy makeup, and the rhinestones were all a part of her look. They were what she wanted other people to see. Her package. During his fifteen years with the Knicks, Len had listened to everybody’s ideas about how he should be packaged. He’d learned the hard way just to go on and be himself. J.J. would learn, too, sooner or later.

J.J. Pepper had first glided into the Club Aquarian that spring. The place had been open just one year, and already it was one of the hottest nightclubs in New York. Len had opened its doors shortly after his final season as a power forward with the Knicks. His original dream had been to start up his own down and dirty jazz joint, but if nothing else his years on the basketball court had taught him who he was and, maybe more important, who he wasn’t. Down and dirty wasn’t his style, and he wasn’t a purist about jazz. He liked to mix in some popular, some soft rock, some easy classical, turn the musicians loose, and let them do their thing. He wanted his club to have a little polish, a certain cachet. Tall ceilings. He wanted it to be the kind of place where people could have a good time, wear their best clothes, be their best selves.

Looking at J.J. the first time, he didn’t think she’d fit in. She’d had on one of her nutty outfits, a thirties dress and lots of rhinestones, and had plunked herself down at the baby grand, like, hell, baby, I belong here. Right then he’d known she had it, never mind the crazy lavender hair and the feeling she wasn’t quite on the level with him.

She’d started to play, stopped after a few seconds, and turned to him. “Did you know this piano has a muddy bass?”

“That right,” he said, noncommittal.

“I’ll compensate today, but you should have it looked at.”

“Sure, babe. I’ll get right on it.”

Before he could pull her little butt off the bench, she’d started to play. Then he didn’t want to stop her. He’d just stood there, listening. Her technique was awesome. He’d never heard such sounds come out of that piano, damned muddy bass or no damned muddy bass. But she didn’t let go; she held on tight to all the notes she had memorized. He could feel something there inside her, waiting to get out. And when it did—man, he wanted to be there. The walls’d be shaking.

She played three tunes and stopped. She turned around on the bench and looked up at him with those pink and lavender streaked eyes for his verdict. She didn’t seem winded or nervous. Len had the feeling that if he told her she wouldn’t do, she’d just shrug her nice round shoulders and walk off, ego intact.

“Not bad, J.J.” A fake name, he decided. Who the hell would call a kid with eyes like that J.J.? He didn’t believe the Pepper, either.

“Thank you,” she said, polite, but not what he’d have called relieved. She knew she was good.

“You need to let yourself go, put some heat into what you’re doing.”

She frowned, smacking her plum-colored lips together. “Improvise, you mean?”

“Yeah, improvise.” He thought, bub, what’re you getting yourself into? But then he heard himself say, “You can play the early crowds, some lunches if you want. I’m looking for somebody to do Sunday brunch, if you’re interested. We sometimes bring in a classical pianist. You know any Bach and Beethoven?”

“I’d prefer to stick to jazz and popular. When would you like me to start?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“I can’t start tomorrow night.”

“Can’t?”

“I have a previous commitment.”

“You playing another club?”

“No.”

She wasn’t going to explain. “What about Sunday?”

“You want to open me with a brunch?”

“Yeah. Earl Hines you’re not, babe.”

Those high, sweet white cheeks of hers got red. “Okay, Mr.—”

She’d forgotten his damn name. “Wetherall,” he supplied, deadpan. “Len Wetherall.”

She’d never heard of him. Took her two weeks to figure out who he was. Told him she followed hockey, not basketball. He’d dropped the name Wayne Gretzky, but she’d just said, “Who?” It had been another one of those little inconsistencies. They all added up to a big fat lie, but Len had decided if J.J. Pepper ever wanted to level with him, then he’d listen.

Until then, he’d let her be whoever she wanted to be.

“Hey, sweet cheeks,” he drawled now, giving her a slow grin. Her eyes were done up in a glittery gold. “Good to see you. How was New Zealand?”

For a second she looked as if she didn’t know what he was talking about, as if she’d forgotten she’d walked out on him four months ago to go mountain climbing in New Zealand. Then everything clicked and she laughed. “New Zealand was terrific.”

He’d have believed she’d been to Yakutsk just as well. “Bring me back a sheep?”

“Postcards.”

Where’d she pick up postcards? Not in New Zealand, for damn sure. “You ready to play?”

She gave him a wide smile, and this time there was relief in it. “Sure.”

“Then get in there. Later you can tell me about New Zealand.”

“Be glad to.”

The glint in her eyes told him she was having a grand time lying to him. But inside, the late afternoon crowd and the baby grand piano were waiting, and she seemed glad to see them both.



The Dutchman smoked a cigar as he stood alone on the park side of Central Park West at Eighty-first Street. Across from him on one corner was the sprawling Museum of Natural History, on the other, the prestigious Beresford. From his vantage point, he could review the two entrances to the Beresford on Eighty-first Street as well as the one on Central Park West. Doormen in green uniforms with gold braid were posted at each entrance. They didn’t worry Hendrik de Geer, if he needed to, he could get past them. For now, he was only observing.

He saw the woman in the raccoon coat step out of a yellow cab on Eighty-first, a wide, busy street that cut through the park. She said something to one of the doormen and was permitted to go inside. Her hair was pinkish blond. At first Hendrik had assumed it was a trick of the sunlight, but he soon realized he was mistaken and that, indeed, her hair was pink. She had left the Beresford a few hours earlier. He’d waited for her, smoking in the cold. He had to see her once more, to be sure.

He was sure now. She was Juliana Fall. He had seen her smile and her eyes. She could be no one else.

All at once the cigar tasted bitter. It was a Havana, his only extravagance. Johannes Peperkamp had given Hendrik his first cigar when he was still just a boy, and he’d choked on the smoke and vomited, embarrassing himself in front of the older friend he’d so badly wanted to impress. Hendrik had long since stopped worrying about trying to impress anyone. All that interested him was survival. His judgment of character and his ability to size up a situation were quick and accurate, and over the years those abilities had helped him stay alive. As he grew older, he found himself becoming increasingly dependent on his instincts. He could rely no longer upon the physical strength or the quickness of youth—or with his whitening blond hair and age-toughened, wrinkling skin, on its appearance. What he had was experience. Instincts.

His instincts now were telling him to run. He would need only to disappear, as he had many times in the past. It was a particular skill of his. He could do it.

He threw down the cigar and stamped it out with the heel of his boot. Then he turned around and walked through the stone gate into the park. My instincts, he thought, be damned.



Juliana Fall, aka J.J. Pepper, let the hot water of the shower rinse the last remnants of the pink mousse from her hair, and it felt as if a part of herself were being sucked down the drain. You’re not J.J.! Yes, but wasn’t J.J. real? Hadn’t Len kissed J.J. on the cheek and hadn’t the crowd at the Club Aquarian applauded J.J.?

J.J. existed. She was an aberration, perhaps, but she did exist. She had even taken over an entire bedroom in Juliana’s sprawling, elegant apartment. It was decorated twenties-style, and the closet and drawers brimmed with vintage clothes and jewelry from between the two World Wars. J.J. fare. Juliana seldom was seen in anything but the latest designs from the collections of top designers.

Stepping out of the shower, Juliana wrapped herself in a giant soft white bathsheet and towel-dried her hair. In the mirror, she looked like herself again—blond-haired, paleskinned, every bit the world-famous concert pianist. But her mind hummed with the chords of Duke Ellington, Earl Hines, and Eubie Blake. Her autumn European tour—she hadn’t stepped foot in New Zealand—was to have driven J.J. Pepper from her system, exorcised her, because J.J. was not a part of her but something that had possessed her.

At least that was what she’d told herself. But twenty-four hours back from Paris and still suffering jet lag, she was dressed in a thirties green satin dress and off to the Aquarian. She’d expected, hoped, dreaded Len would tell her to get lost. He hadn’t. He’d told her to play. And, by God, had she!

She’d had a good time.

A hell of a good time.

J.J. Pepper was back, and Juliana Fall didn’t know what to do about her. Tell Len the truth? Tell herself the truth? That she, Juliana Fall, was the pink-haired, free-spirited, jazz-playing J.J. Pepper?

She went into her own bedroom and put on a simple white Calvin Klein shirt, a straight black wool skirt, and a raspberry wool jacket. J.J.’s raspberry boots would have matched the outfit, but she chose instead her black Italian boots and passed over the raccoon coat for her black cashmere. She was having dinner tonight with Shuji, and if there was one thing Eric Shuji Shizumi would never understand, it was J.J. Pepper. Shuji was a phenomenal pianist, a wild, intense, impatient genius who exhausted audiences with his thrilling performances. He was forty-eight, and in his long career, he’d taken on only one student: Juliana Fall.

“And if he finds out about J.J.,” she said aloud as she waited for the elevator, “he’ll lop off your head with one of his authentic Japanese short swords.”

He’d threatened to do the same for transgressions far less serious than playing jazz incognito in a SoHo nightclub.

Halfway to the lobby, she remembered she was still wearing J.J.’s gaudy rhinestone ring, which she snatched off, dropped into her handbag, and tried to forget.



The Dutchman had walked across Central Park, ignoring the falling temperature and the lightly falling snow. Children on the plastic things they now used for sleds laughed as they passed him; he ignored them, too. He crossed Fifth Avenue and continued along East Seventy-ninth to Madison and up several more blocks, until he came to a little bake shop with white-trimmed windowpanes. Inside, the display of Dutch wooden shoes filled with chocolates and tiny gifts made it look as if St. Nicholas had already been there. Sint Nicolaas. Hendrik hadn’t thought of him in years.

Catharina’s Bake Shop the sign read in simple delft-blue letters. The Dutchman lingered in front of the window. Small round tables covered with delft-blue cloths were crowded with customers, laughing, happy customers indulging themselves with hot chocolate, silver pots of coffee, china pots of tea, fat cream puffs, perfect tarts and trays of scones, tiny sandwiches, assorted jams and cheeses. Glass cases were stocked with good things to take home, and smiling white-aproned waitresses bustled among the customers.

For the first time in more than forty years, Hendrik de Geer felt himself swelling with nostalgia. He had to blink away hot tears—him! A couple hurried past him, and when they opened the door, he heard the tinkle of a little bell and smelled cinnamon, nutmeg, anise, butter, and fresh coffee. It was almost more than he could bear. They were the smells of his youth, and he choked with emotion, unable to hold back the memories.

He didn’t venture inside. He shoved his cold hands into the pockets of his cheap overcoat and stared through the window, watching a couple torture themselves over which cake to choose. The chocolate or the buttercream? If only his choices were that trivial.

A woman appeared behind the glass case, and for a moment Hendrik thought her radiant smile was directed at him. Catharina… he wanted to cry out to her.

But the sight of him would only bring her pain, and he stepped back so that she wouldn’t be able to see him out on the street, alone in the dark. She spoke to the couple, and he watched, marveling at how little she’d changed. Even now, in her late fifties, there was something so captivatingly fresh and innocent about her. Her wispy white-blond hair was braided on top of her head like some long-ago Dutch queen, but without queenly arrogance, and she wore a turquoise knit dress beneath her apron. She had a strong chin and nose, almost too strong, but her dark green eyes were round and soft and exactly as Hendrik remembered.

She helped the couple choose the chocolate cake and wrapped it herself, and when the Dutchman heard the tinkle of the little doorbell as they left, he was halfway down the block.

Choices. What nonsense was this about choices? He had no choice. As always he would simply do what had to be done.



Eric Shuji Shizumi had lit a cigarette over coffee—a bad sign. He was demonically good-looking, a wiry man with sharp features, longish fine black hair touched with gray, and probing black eyes. He was notoriously single-minded. Born in San Francisco, he was sansei, third-generation Japanese-American. But his earliest memories were of a concentration camp in Wyoming, something he never discussed, never permitted to be printed in his program notes. He could have married a dozen times over, but it was the piano that possessed his soul and consumed his life—and, some said, Juliana Fall. She had heard the rumors but had always dismissed them. She knew Shuji at least as well as he knew her, and whatever had bonded them together for the past twenty years, it wasn’t sex and romance. Their relationship was volatile and incomprehensible. In their own way, they were devoted to each other, but neither had shown any inclination to marry, either each other or anyone else. Shuji was no longer formally her teacher, but she was still widely described as his sole student and continued to rely on his advice and guidance. She supposed she still needed his approval, and, too, he understood the demands of international artistic fame better than most. Yet the isolation demanded by his profession never bothered him the way it often did Juliana. He was content to sit for hours at the piano, alone with his work, day after day, month after month, year after year. He had little sympathy with his sole student’s need to be with people on occasion.

He blew out his match and dropped it in an ashtray, exhaling a noxious cloud of smoke. “Juliana,” he said, “we need to talk.”

Her heart pounded. He’s found out about J.J.! But that was impossible. Shuji would never have gotten through dinner if he’d known she’d played Mose Allison at a SoHo club that very afternoon. He’d have gone after her with a steak knife. “About what?” she asked.

“What’s happening to you.”

“Me? I’ve just returned from a grueling European tour, and Saturday night I’m doing my hundredth concert this year at Lincoln Center. That’s what’s happening to me.” Shuji held the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, not in-haling. They were at a tiny, bring-your-own wine Italian restaurant just off Broadway on the Upper West Side. It wasn’t glitzy, and if any of their fellow diners recognized the two world-famous musicians, they left them alone. Juliana was drinking decaffeinated café au lait, hoping it would counteract the wine and food and jet lag so she could go home and run through the Beethoven concerto she would be performing in two days.

“And after the concert?” Shuji asked. “Then what?”

“I go to Vermont for a week or so on a well-deserved vacation, and then I come back and spend the next few months working and recording. I don’t have another concert until spring. I’m cutting back some this year. You know all that, Shuji, so what are you trying to get at?”

“Don’t go to Vermont,” he said.

“What?”

“You heard me. Don’t go.”

“Shuji, I need rest. Dammit, I deserve a break!”

“You need work.”

“I work all the time. I’ve been on the road for four months—”

“The real excitement of being a pianist is in the practice room, not on the concert stage. Juliana, you’ve been operating at a killing pace the past few years. I know that. And you know I support your cutting back from a hundred concerts a year. But I don’t support your going to Vermont, at least not right away. You need to experience the excitement of the practice room again, and as soon as possible.”

“Jesus Christ, Shuji, I’m only going to be gone a week!”

Shuji took a deep drag on his cigarette, held the smoke a moment, then exhaled. Juliana coughed and drank some of her café au lait, but he paid no attention. As usual, he was absorbed totally in his own thoughts. If we were married, she thought, we’d last two weeks.

“A pianist doesn’t look forward to a vacation where there is no piano,” he said.

You shit, she thought, but held back. She owned a small, antique Cape Cod house overlooking the Batten Kill River in southwestern Vermont; during the winter, she liked to keep a fire going in the center chimney fireplace. She would sit in front of the flames with an old quilt spread on her lap and read books, not thinking about music. It was true she didn’t have a piano in Vermont. She didn’t even have a stereo. What she had was silence.

“Shuji,” she said carefully, controlling her impatience. “I am not you. I need this time out, and I’m going to take it.”

“It would be a mistake.”

“Why all of a sudden would going to Vermont be a mistake? It’s not as if I’ve never done it before.”

“I was in Copenhagen, Juliana.”

“Shit.”

“Yes.”

Copenhagen hadn’t been one of her more memorable performances. In fact, it had been distinctly forgettable. But Shuji didn’t comprehend things like bad nights, and Juliana knew better than to make excuses. “It was an inferior performance,” she admitted, “but skipping Vermont isn’t going to change that—and what the hell are you sneaking into my concerts for? Haven’t you got anything better to do?”

“I was in Paris also.”

“Well, then, you know Copenhagen was an aberration.” She had received a standing ovation and rave notices in Paris—and had earned them.

But Shuji was shaking his head solemnly as he crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “I’m not interested in what went on on the surface, I’m interested in what’s going on beneath the surface.” He always talked like that; it drove her nuts. “I heard something in Copenhagen and in Paris—on a ‘bad’ night and on a ‘good’ night, if you insist. It was an uneasiness, I believe, a hint of unpredictability. No one else would notice, of course, but soon they will, if you let it get away from you. Be aware of it. Control it. Find out what it is, Juliana, and use it to your advantage. The only place you can do that is in the practice room.”

What he’d heard was J.J. Pepper creeping into her work, but that wasn’t something Juliana wanted to discuss with Eric Shuji Shizumi. “Fine. I’ll work on it after Vermont.”

“You’re in a funk, Juliana.”

“I’m not.”

His black eyes probed her face. “Are you afraid of burning out?”

“No.”

“I was, when I was thirty. You don’t remember. You were just a child and had no understanding of such things. But despite all the acclaim, the recordings, the bookings, I wondered if I’d still be around when I was thirty-five. Countless young pianists are just flash-in-the-pans, brilliant for a few years and then gone—poof. Sometimes it’s their choice; sometimes not.”

“I’m not going to go ‘poof’, I’m going to go to Vermont.”

“God knows the public’s fickle, always searching for a new star, and our competition system thrusts pianists into the public light at an incredibly young age. The pressures of being a virtuoso are enormous. You’re so exposed, so vulnerable. At thirty, the novelty’s worn off. You’ve made a great deal of money, and you must decide if you want to be in this thing for the long haul or not.”

“I’ve never considered not being a pianist.”

“Haven’t you?”

He gave her an unreadable half-smile, aware that she was lying. Of course she had. Lately, more than ever. But she couldn’t tell Shuji about the mornings she’d lain in bed wondering what her life would be like if she’d never taken up piano, if she never played again. What would she do? What could she do? She couldn’t tell him about her mounting exhaustion as the tour had worn on, about her fantasies of sticking a jazz improvisation into the middle of a Mozart sonata, about her tiresome fights with her manager, who wanted her to maintain a hundred-concert schedule and at the same time expand her repertoire and do more recordings. She couldn’t tell Shuji about her boredom with the review, the constant travel, the fancy dinners, the men she met. She couldn’t tell him about the growing monotony of it all and her fear that the monotony would follow her into the practice room, where it never had before. J.J. had counteracted some of the monotony, but she wouldn’t be around forever—and Shuji couldn’t know about J.J.

He was right. She was in a funk. But in nineteen years, she’d never once told Eric Shuji Shizumi he was right. They argued and struggled and discussed, but she never gave in to him, never permitted herself to be intimidated by his legendary status. When that happened, she would lose her independence as an artist and, she thought, as a person.

“I’m not worried about being around when I’m thirty-five, and I’m not in any funk.” She pushed aside her café au lait and sprang up, feeling tired and scared and so furious she couldn’t see clearly. Why the hell couldn’t Shuji just leave her alone! Why did he always have to push and press! “I hope to hell you’re happy, Shuji. You’ve ruined Vermont for me.”

“Good,” he said.

“Bastard. Go to hell.”

She stalked out, leaving him with the bill and a smug look on his handsome face.



From his shabby hotel room on Broadway, Hendrik de Geer put a call through to United States Senator Samuel Ryder. The Dutchman had been given the senator’s Georgetown number, and he wasn’t surprised when Ryder picked up on the first ring. It was precisely nine o’clock, when Hendrik had said he would call.

“You have your answer?” Ryder asked.

The Dutchman heard the tension in the young senator’s patrician tone, but he took no pleasure in it. “I will meet you at Lincoln Center on Saturday night.” His English was excellent, only lightly accented; he spoke Dutch only when there was no alternative. It was the language of his past. “After the concert. You’ll have a car?”

“Of course.”

“Meet me there.”

“All right. But take care the Stein woman doesn’t see you.”

Hendrik closed his eyes, just for a second, and felt the pain wash over him. The Stein woman…Rachel. But—“I need no instructions from you, Senator.” His voice was cold. “Bloch knows none of this?”

“Do you think I’m a fool?”

“Yes. You tell people what they want to hear, Senator. I know. See to it you tell Bloch nothing, do you understand? Otherwise, my friend, we have no deal.”




Two


Senator Samuel Ryder, Jr., edged into the narrow wooden booth of the crowded, smoke-filled Washington, D.C., diner. It was not the sort of place he frequented, ever, but he had chosen it for this meeting—a breakfast meeting not on any calendar known to his protective, thorough staff. His aides would have been horrified to see him give the chubby waitress a halfhearted smile as she slapped a sturdy mug of black coffee down in front of him.

“See a menu?” she asked.

The unappetizing menus were printed on cheap white paper and shoved between pieces of peeling plastic. “No, thank you,” Ryder said, concealing his distaste as he looked for any sign of recognition in her bored eyes. There was none. “I’ll just have coffee for now.”

She shrugged and waddled off, moving her bulk with surprising ease. Ryder tried the coffee; it was hot and strong, although not of high quality. He didn’t mind. During the past month he’d slept little. Coffee kept him going, as well as his sense of duty, of optimism. Things would work out; they had to.

Without a sound, Otis Raymond materialized in the opposite bench and slid into the corner with the ketchup and sugar packets and A-1 sauce, as if he were the one afraid to be seen. Ryder, forty-one and single, tall, sandy-haired, square-jawed, and well-dressed, stuck out in the greasy diner. Army Specialist Fourth Class Otis Raymond—the Weasel, his buddies in Vietnam had called him—fit right in. He had to be forty, but he was even ganglier than Ryder remembered. Otis still looked like a teenager, a doped-up kid on the road to hell. He wasn’t aging, he was yellowing. His bug-bitten skin, his sunken eyes, his teeth, his fingertips. Even his hair had a dead, yellowish cast.

Otis grinned. “Shit, man, it’s been a long time. You done good since ’Nam, huh, Sam?” Fortunately, he seemed not to expect an answer. He rubbed his hands together. “I gotta have coffee. Fucking freezing up here. How the hell do you stand it?”

“You get used to it,” Ryder said.

“Not me, man.”

The chubby waitress appeared with a mug and a fresh pot of coffee. She poured Otis a cup, refilled Ryder’s, and took out her order pad. Although Ryder gagged at the thought of what such a place might serve, he knew if he didn’t eat, Otis wouldn’t either, and the Weasel looked even more gaunt and hungry than Ryder remembered. He ordered ham and eggs. Otis said, “Make that two,” and gave Ryder a manic grin. “Can’t remember the last time I had a decent breakfast. You?”

“I usually play tennis early Friday mornings,” Ryder said.

Otis laughed, snorting. “Tennis, shit. You wear them little white shorts?”

“They’re considered de rigueur, yes.”

“Fuck that.”

The Weasel pulled out a crushed pack of Camels and tapped out a cigarette, taking three matches to light it. The matches were cheap and damp, and his hands were shaking. Ryder had a feeling they always shook. He dragged deeply on his cigarette, his fingers trembling noticeably. Raymond had always believed he and Ryder had some sort of special rapport because he’d saved Ryder’s life in Vietnam, but of course that was absurd. Raymond had just been doing his job. Ryder didn’t feel he owed Otis any special thanks. He appreciated the former helicopter door gunner’s extraordinary skill with an M-60 machine gun, his principal weapon, which he’d treated with more care and concern than he had himself. But that came as no surprise: Otis Raymond had never planned on making it out of Southeast Asia. And in many ways, he hadn’t.

Breakfast arrived, smelling of salt and grill grease, and the Weasel attacked his with the relish of the half-starved. The coffee and cigarette seemed to have calmed him, and his hands were steadier. He bit into the butter-slathered toast. “Bloch thinks you’re up to something, Sam.” Otis seemed to enjoy calling a U.S. senator by his first name. He swallowed the toast. “That’s why he sent me up here. He doesn’t give a shit what you do, so long as he gets his money. He’s not worried about you giving away his operation, because he knows if you do, you’ll end up swimming in shit, too.”

“He’s overextended,” Ryder said coldly, wishing he could feel as confident as he sounded.

“Yeah, I know, but that don’t matter. He’s putting the screws to you so you can pull him out. Man, he’s been doing this crap for years. You try and mess him up, you don’t come out of it. He will; you won’t.”

Ryder said nothing. It rankled him that Bloch—Master Sergeant (ret.) Phillip Bloch—had sent Otis Raymond as his messenger. The Weasel, for the love of God. A drug-addicted loser giving him, a United States senator, advice!

“Don’t bullshit Bloch, man. You got something going, level with him.”

The acidic coffee burned in Ryder’s stomach as his contempt for Raymond and Block and the underlife they represented again assaulted him. They’d been in Vietnam together—or, more accurately, at the same time. Weasel, Block, Ryder. And Stark. Mustn’t forget Matthew Stark, although he’d tried. Of the four, only Ryder had successfully put their shared past behind him. He’d overcome all that had happened to him in Vietnam, all he’d done, all he’d seen, all he’d had done to him. He’d been a first lieutenant, a platoon leader, and Bloch had been his platoon sergeant. Stark had been a helicopter pilot, Otis Raymond his door gunner. They’d all survived their tours of duty.

Ryder understood tragedy as well as anyone—better than most, he felt. But why dwell on what you couldn’t change? Why not move forward? He loathed men like Otis Raymond, still living the war, letting it destroy them, but at least Otis wasn’t always whining and complaining the way so many were. Ryder had never had much in common with the men with whom he’d served, the men he’d led. Most were from the dregs of American society and had gone to Vietnam not because they believed in or understood the cause for which they were fighting, but because they had had no other real option. “I got into some trouble,” Otis had explained once. “Judge told me, go to school, go to war, or go to jail.” But Ryder came from an old, prestigious central Florida family and was himself the son of a U.S. senator; going to Vietnam for him had been an honor and, as his father’s son, a duty.

“What more does Bloch want from me?” Ryder asked, hating the hoarseness in his voice. Normally his strong sense of self, which some called arrogance, could conceal his fear.

“Anything he can get, Sam.”

He licked his lips, resisting the impulse to bite down. “What does he know?”

Otis shrugged. “He knows de Geer’s in New York, that you two got something cooked up.”

“Did de Geer tell him?”

“The sergeant’s got snitches all over camp. He knows what’s going on.”

“He would,” Ryder said, dispirited.

If he leveled with Bloch, the Dutchman would be furious and perhaps impossible to control. Technically, de Geer worked for Bloch, although as an independent his only loyalty was to himself. It was in his role as Bloch’s messenger that Ryder had first met the Dutchman. De Geer turned the screws on Ryder on the sergeant’s behalf—demanding more money, more favors, making those demands impossible to refuse. But now Ryder was the one turning the screws on the Dutchman.

Still, Ryder knew that if he didn’t level with Bloch, the sergeant would keep digging until he found out what he wanted to know. Right now, Ryder didn’t need that kind of interference. He needed to keep Bloch where he was, at least for the moment. “Can’t you stall him?”

“Me?” Otis gave a croaking laugh that ended in a fit of coughing. He slurped some coffee and settled back, his bony frame almost disappearing against the tall wooden back of the booth. “Shit, Sam, you got a sense of humor, huh? I don’t stall Bloch—man, nobody stalls that fucker. I try, I’m a dead man.”

“My God, what have I gotten myself into?”

Ryder hadn’t intended for Otis to hear him, but the skinny army combat veteran nodded solemnly. “You know it, Sam, don’t you? Let me help, okay? Trust me, I know Bloch. Man, I ain’t going to let you go down.”

My God, Ryder thought, am I so desperate I need Otis Raymond to protect me? “Thank you, Otis, but I can handle Bloch. Everything will work out.”

“That’s what you always say.”

“It will. Trust me.”

“I gotta give Bloch something.”

“Of course. I understand that. Explain to him that Hendrik de Geer and I are meeting at Lincoln Center tomorrow night to discuss a plan to get Bloch enough money to purchase the weaponry he needs and to get into his permanent camp—and out of my life for good. That’s to his advantage as well as mine. Our current arrangement is too dangerous for us both.”

Otis nodded at Ryder’s plate, and Ryder shook his head and pushed it over. “I ain’t had a good plate of eggs in I don’t know when. You should see the crap the sergeant feeds us. Granola, for chrissake. So, what kind of plan?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Man, you gotta.”

“Look—”

“You want Bloch at Lincoln Center, then you clamp up right now.”

“That’s the last thing I want!”

Otis dug into Ryder’s cold eggs. “Then talk to me, Sam.”

“I’m going after a diamond.” Ryder measured his words carefully, trying to ignore the grinding pain in the pit of his stomach. He was so afraid. Dear God, he was afraid. But everything would work out. “It’s the largest, most mysterious uncut diamond in the world.”

“Huh?”

“And if I can get it—if—I intend to turn it over to one Master Sergeant Phillip Bloch.”




Three


A young woman in a fresh white apron smiled across the counter in Catharina’s Bake Shop at the tiny dark-haired woman. “May I help you?”

“Yes,” Rachel Stein said, only vaguely aware that in this place, her faded Dutch accent seemed right. “I’m here to see Catharina Peperkamp—Fall, I mean.” It was impossible to think of Catharina married, with a child. “Catharina Fall.”

“And who should I tell her is here?”

“Tell her Rachel.”

It would, she believed, be enough.

The waitress went back to the kitchen, and Rachel took a piece of broken butter cookie from a sample basket on the counter. For many years when she was young, she’d often been mistaken for a child, but now, with deep lines etched into her forehead and around her serious mouth and small, straight nose, people thought she was an old lady when she was only sixty-five. She’d gone from looking too young to looking too old. Her cab driver had offered to help her out of the taxi! She’d declined, of course, but thanked him lest he not offer his help the next time to someone who truly needed it. She supposed a face-lift would help, but although she could easily afford one, she refused even to investigate the procedure. In her opinion, people needed to see in her face, in its lines, what life had done to her. She believed that. But she kept herself well-groomed—her nails were always manicured, her hair perfectly styled—and she wore expensive, fashionable clothes. In that way, life had been good to her.

Within thirty seconds, Catharina Fall rushed out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, a panicked, uncertain look on her face. Rachel wished she could smile to reassure her. But she couldn’t. A smile, now, would be a lie. Yet she wasn’t surprised the impulse was there; everyone had always wanted to protect Catharina.

“My friend,” Rachel said quietly, holding on to her emotions, “you look wonderful.”

“Rachel.” Catharina put her fist to her mouth and held back a sob. “I don’t believe it’s you.”

She’s going to throw me out, Rachel thought. She can’t bear to see me. I’m a reminder. A shadow. As she is for me.

Instead Catharina burst from behind the counter and threw her arms around Rachel, crying, “My God, Rachel, oh, Rachel,” and Rachel found her own eyes filling with tears and her arms going around her strong, good friend. She’d missed her. Without realizing it, she’d missed her.

It had been more than forty years.

Catharina was sobbing openly, and the people around them were pretending not to notice. “I can’t believe…I never thought I’d see you again.” She stood back and brushed away her tears without embarrassment; flour stuck to her nose and she tried to laugh. “Oh, Rachel.”

Rachel’s throat was so tight it hurt. A sob would relieve the tension, but she blinked back her tears and refused to cry. She was a master at self-control. She hadn’t expected Catharina to have this kind of impact on her. “My dear friend,” she said, squeezing Catharina’s hand, then releasing it. I must be strong. “It’s so good to see you. I heard about your shop, and I thought, while I’m in New York I’ll have to stop and see you.”

Catharina had stopped crying and was shaking her head. “You know that’s not true.”

Rachel had to smile, and some of the tightness in her throat eased. “Achh, I never could fool you. It’s always been that way between us, hasn’t it? You always know when I’m not telling the truth. Even after all these years. But come, let’s pretend for a little while.”

“Rachel…”

There was fear in those deep green eyes. Rachel wished she hadn’t seen it. “Please, Catharina.”

“All right.” Catharina nodded, but the fear didn’t go away. “We’ll have tea.”

“Wonderful.”

She pointed to a small table in the far corner. “There, go sit down. I’ll bring a tray.”

Rachel quickly took her friend’s hand. “Don’t be afraid, Catharina.”

“I’ll be all right. Now go sit down. I’ll bring the tea.”

“As you wish. I’ll wait for you.”



The big, open newsroom of the Washington Gazette was filled with the noise of bustling reporters, computers, typewriters, and telephones. Alice Feldon had been at her desk for two hours and had yet to sit down. She didn’t mind. It was a sign things were hopping. What she did mind—what irritated the hell out of her—was that she couldn’t find Matthew Stark. Again. She ignored the skinny, sorry-looking man who wanted to talk to Stark and scanned the newsroom. She had to squint her eyes because her glasses were on top of her head instead of on the bridge of her too-prominent nose. She was a large, lumpy-fleshed, big-boned woman, and she had no illusions about herself or the blue-collar tabloid she worked for. Last night, during a bout of insomnia, she’d painted her nails a shade of lavender she’d found on her daughter’s shelf in the medicine cabinet.

“Where the hell’s Stark?” she demanded of no one in particular.

A young reporter three desks away looked up nervously from his computer screen. A Post type if she’d ever seen one. His name was Aaron Ziegler, and he’d majored in journalism, which she considered a dumb thing for a reporter to have done. She’d hired him because he didn’t show her any of the practice obituaries he’d done in class reporting. “He went for coffee,” Ziegler said. “Promised he’d be back in five minutes.”

“When was that, a half-hour ago?” Alice growled and glared at the skittish guy as if it was his fault she was stuck with a lazy shit like Matthew Stark. She should have fired him four years ago when she’d come in as the Gazette’s metropolitan editor. He’d been occupying space for six months and hadn’t done a damn thing that she could see. But he was a name, and the Gazette had precious few names. The boys upstairs had pressured her to give him a chance. She sighed at Ziegler. “Go find him, will you? Tell him he’s got company.”

Ziegler was already on his feet. “Any name?”

The skinny guy sniffled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Just tell him the Weaze is here.”

Alice wrinkled up her nose but didn’t say a word. Ziegler hid his grin as he headed out of the newsroom. Like most everyone else at the Gazette, he was intimidated by Matthew Stark. Alice wasn’t, although she couldn’t understand why. Lazy or not, he was the scariest sonofabitch she’d ever known.



Catharina’s hands shook as she poured tea from a white porcelain pot. She had prepared the tray of Darjeeling, little sandwiches, round scones, two pots of jam, and a plate of butter cookies herself. Rachel understood that her sudden appearance was a shock for Catharina. Forty years ago they’d said goodbye in Amsterdam, and Catharina, who stayed there a few more years, had cried and promised she would stay in touch. Rachel hadn’t shed a tear or made a promise, because she had already cried a lifetime of tears and no longer believed in promises.

“Don’t be nervous,” Rachel said kindly. She added sugar to her tea. They were strangers, she and Catharina. And yet, how could they ever be? “I haven’t been to New York in so long. There’s no other city quite like it, is there?”

“No, there isn’t,” Catharina said. She added a drop of cream to her tea but didn’t touch it.

“But how are you, Catharina?”

“Fine, I’m fine.”

“That’s good.” Rachel concealed her own awkwardness as she tried some of the tea. “I can see why you opened a bakeshop. You were always a wonderful cook, and you took such pleasure in it. Nobody could make the meager rations we had in the war tolerable the way you did—and remember your beet stew?” Rachel laughed, not a happy, carefree laugh, but still a laugh. “It was ghastly, but much better than anything we’d had in weeks.” She was suddenly silent, observing Catharina’s discomfiture with a small sigh. Did her old friend never think about the war? Rachel asked softly, “Adrian’s a decent man?”

“Yes, wonderful.” Catharina seemed relieved at the switch in subject. “He’s so kind and strong.”

“He’s a banker?”

“Yes, and he loves it.”

“I’m glad. I’ve often wondered what would have happened to you if he hadn’t come along when he did. Holland—” Rachel shrugged and thought perhaps it would be best not to dig any deeper than was strictly necessary. “You needed to get out of there. Wilhelmina would have suffocated you. Have you been back?”

“To Amsterdam, once, when Ann died. Johannes was inconsolable; I’d always hoped they’d die together.” She quickly picked up a scone, absently coating it with raspberry jam. “And to Rotterdam seven years ago, when my daughter made her Dutch premiere in the church in which Adrian and I were married. He didn’t come—he and Willie have never gotten along, and their fighting would have spoiled everything.”

“Does she still think you’ll come back?”

“Of course.”

Rachel nodded, remembering the tough, solid woman who was Catharina’s senior by a dozen years and had been Rachel’s closest friend. Wilhelmina Peperkamp had held the Nazis in the strongest contempt from the very beginning, long before Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland, certainly long before the German occupation of The Netherlands. Rachel had never met anyone more reliable. “Yes, I can believe that.”

“Do you see her?”

With their five-year age difference, the friendship between Wilhelmina Peperkamp and Rachel Stein had been more a meeting of equals. Catharina had always been the baby. They’d all protected her—Wilhelmina, Johannes, Rachel, her brother Abraham. Everyone. They’d seemed to believe that if they could prevent the war from touching her, they could somehow preserve some of their own innocence. But the war had touched her. Nothing they could have done would have stopped that. It had robbed her of her youth, her girlhood. Rachel saw that now, understood, but she wondered if Catharina felt she’d failed them all.

“How can I see Willie?” Rachel said with a snort. “You know she doesn’t travel, and I won’t go back. She sends me cards at the holidays. She tells me about you, Juliana, her begonias.”

“Do you write to her?” Catharina asked.

“No, but of course that doesn’t stop Willie from doing what she feels is right. If it did…” She lifted her small shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe then I would write. Catharina.” Rachel sighed, taking a tiny sandwich of smoked salmon. She wasn’t hungry, but she knew she needed to eat. Five years of near starvation had developed in her a practical attitude toward food. “Do you have any idea why I’m here?”

“I can guess.”

“I’ve seen him,” Rachel said without further preamble. “I’ve seen Hendrik de Geer.”

Catharina shut her eyes and held her breath, and Rachel thought her old friend was going to faint. “Catharina?”

She opened her eyes. “I’m all right,” she said weakly. “I’m sorry.”

“Please, don’t.”

“I’d convinced myself he was dead.”

“Hendrik dead?” Rachel hooted. “He’ll outlive us all. He’s blessed that way, you know—or cursed. Remember the time he brought us the chocolate? We’d had nothing but sugar beets to eat for days and Hendrik showed up with chocolate. I thought I’d never tasted anything so wonderful. He was so proud of himself, and we were too thrilled even to think to ask him where he’d gotten it. But you know Hendrik. He’s the kind who picks up the world each morning and gives it a good shake. For once, Catharina, I want it to go the other way around. I want the world to give Hendrik de Geer a good shake.”

Catharina stared down at her tea, which had become cold, the cream filming on the top. She hadn’t touched her scone. “Where did you see him?”

Rachel nibbled on a watercress sandwich. “On television, two weeks ago. It was fate, I think. Abraham and I have retired to Palm Beach.” Fleetingly, she thought of the last thirty years, during which she and her brother had become two of the savviest, toughest Hollywood agents. It seemed so distant now. The past, Amsterdam, seemed so much closer. “I never liked Los Angeles, I don’t know why. Anyway, now I have a whole new group of politicians to watch. I always watch politics, of course, since Hitler. One of our senators is Samuel Ryder—very handsome, charming, on the whole too conservative for me, but nothing I can’t live with. One day I’m watching the local news, and a reporter catches Sam Ryder as his car pulls up to the curb and starts firing questions at him—you know how they will—about some controversial bill he’s sponsoring, and sitting beside him is Hendrik de Geer. Hendrik! In a limousine with a United States senator.”

The bell at the door tinkled, and Rachel looked around, pausing as two young women entered the shop, loaded down with shopping bags. Rolls of bright Christmas wrapping paper poked out of one bag.

“You’re certain?” Catharina asked.

“Absolutely. After all these years, do you think he’s changed? No, he looks just as he did in Amsterdam. I knew immediately it was he. My stomach told me, before my brain.” She remembered how she’d run to the bathroom and vomited. That was something she would never admit to Catharina, for whom, she felt, she must remain especially strong. “I called Ryder’s office at once and demanded to know why he was riding around with Hendrik de Geer, and, of course, they thought I was crazy. But I persisted, and finally they put the senator on.”

“You told him—”

“I told him everything I could think of about Hendrik. Yes, that’s exactly what I did. I talked and talked; everything just poured out of me, because now I think the time has come. I told him Hendrik de Geer betrayed me and my family and the people who were hiding us to the Nazis and that he was a Nazi collaborator and has never answered for what he did.”

Catharina regarded her old friend with despair. “He’s never even admitted he did anything wrong. Oh, Rachel, what’s the point? You know what he is—”

“That’s the point. I do know what he is!”

Rachel balled one tiny hand into a fist and thumped the table with her bony knuckles. Dishes rattled. Catharina jumped, looking startled and hurt.

Inhaling deeply, Rachel calmed herself and went on with quiet intensity. “He says Hendrik conned his way into seeing him to urge him to support an increase in defense spending but that he, Ryder, knows very little about him and had no way of getting in touch with him. I don’t believe him, but no matter. He’s agreed to investigate my allegations further if I can corroborate my story. I asked Abraham, but he thinks I’m crazy and that Ryder is only trying to pacify me and look good to a Jewish constituency. Maybe he’s right.” She laughed, remembering the shouting match she and her brother had had. But they had been fighting all their lives; they had good fights. “Abraham’s content to believe Hendrik de Geer will meet his fate one day, if not until the moment of his death. Me, I believe Hendrik will even fast-talk God!”

Rachel grinned, but the light in her dark eyes faded as soon as it appeared. “I intend to make Hendrik answer for Amsterdam,” she said, her gaze on the fair woman across the table, not easing up, not letting her off the hook. “You can help me, Catharina. You can corroborate my story.”

“You can’t make Hendrik answer for anything,” Catharina said, tension strangling her words. “No one can. Rachel, he’s a hard, hard man. Please don’t do this. Don’t go after him. Leave the past alone. Not for his sake, not for mine—for your sake, Rachel. You know what he is!”

Rachel filled her teacup once more, her hand steady. “I can’t leave the past alone.”

She could see the mix of anguish and determination in her friend’s face and understood, because she had waged the same battle with herself and made her decision.

Catharina sighed softly. “Of course, how could I even ask you? It’s just that I’m afraid for you, Rachel.”

“I know.” Rachel smiled and waved a hand, but she couldn’t dismiss the pain in Catharina’s beautiful eyes. She’d forgotten what it was to have someone—aside from Abraham of course—care about her. “The future holds nothing for me. It never did, even when I was twenty. I think only of the past. I can remember so clearly, as if it happened just this morning, how my father would sit me on his knee and tell me about diamonds, let me help him sort them. So boring! But there was such life in his eyes. Do you remember?”

Catharina nodded sadly. “Your father was one of the gentlest, wisest men I’ve ever known.”

“He was younger than I am now when he died.” Rachel drank some tea, replacing the cup on its saucer with a firmness that underlined her own resolve. “Don’t be afraid for me, Catharina. I’m doing what I must do, what I want to do. I know exactly the kind of man I’m facing, and I don’t care. If Hendrik wins, he wins. But at least I’ll have tried. All I want is for him to understand what he did.”

“He never will, Rachel,” Catharina said.

“We’ll see.”

“Hendrik never intended for bad things to come of what he did, and when they did, he couldn’t admit he was at fault. He couldn’t accept the consequences of his own actions—he probably still can’t. It’s not in his nature. You’re not going to change him. Hendrik de Geer will always be out for himself.”

“Let’s not argue,” Rachel said. “I won’t force you to help.”

Catharina looked shocked. “No, that’s not what I meant. Of course I’ll talk to Senator Ryder, if that’s what you want, but I’m pessimistic that anything will come of it. Even now, Hendrik probably already knows you’re after him. He won’t stick around. And Rachel, my God, you’ve suffered enough.”

“We all have,” she said, fire coming into her eyes. “But not Hendrik.”

“I know, but…”

Rachel reached across the table and grabbed Catharina’s strong hand, squeezing it tightly, aware of how small and frail her own hand was—but it was only bones, skin, muscle. Nothing that counted. The bond between them, what was unseen and immeasurable and timeless, was all that mattered. “You live on Park Avenue and have dried dough under your nails. Only you, Catharina. My friend, my dear, dear friend, I know how difficult this must be for you. But you don’t have to see him. You—”

Catharina was looking at someone across the room. “Oh, dear heavens.”

Rachel felt her heart pound. Hendrik—was it Hendrik? Had he found her? She whispered, “What’s wrong?”

“Juliana. I forgot, I invited her to tea.”

Resisting the impulse to draw a heavy sigh of relief, Rachel turned around and looked at the young woman grabbing a butter cookie and waving to her mother. Blond hair falling over her open black cashmere coat, dark green eyes sparkling, smile bright—a fascinating combination of strength and delicacy was this Juliana Fall. Full of piss and vinegar, Abraham would say. “So that’s your Juliana? She’s very beautiful, Catharina. You’re fortunate.”

“I know. Sometimes I wonder how I produced such a child. From the time she was a tiny girl, her whole life has been music. I don’t understand. Adrian and I aren’t musical, but with Juliana, there’s never been anything else. Have you ever heard her perform?”

“Not in person, but I’ve listened to her on the radio many times. And Senator Ryder has tickets for Lincoln Center tomorrow night. He suggests we meet there, after the concert, and—Catharina?”

She’d gone white. “Rachel, she doesn’t know. Juliana. I haven’t told her.”

“About Amsterdam? Nothing?”

“I couldn’t. Even Adrian…” Catharina shut her eyes briefly; Rachel watched her fight for self-control with a mother’s willpower as her daughter made her way to the table. “Neither of them knows what happened. I know I’m overprotective, but I didn’t want any of that to touch them. I just can’t talk about Amsterdam.”

“That’s your right,” Rachel said carefully. Having never married, she had never had to make such decisions. “I understand.”

“You’ll keep her out of this?”

Rachel smiled reassuringly, and although she didn’t understand, perhaps didn’t approve, she felt good about being able to comfort her friend. “Of course. There’s no reason whatever for Juliana to be involved in this.”



Matthew Stark was in the middle of an argument on shortstops with a couple of sports reporters when Ziegler found him in the Gazette cafeteria. At thirty-nine, Stark was a dark, solidly built, compact man with a face that might have been good-looking except for the shrapnel scars. His eyes were deep-set and a very dark brown; people told him that sometimes they seemed black. He had on jeans, a chambray shirt, and his heavy, handmade Minnesota Gokey boots.

“Sorry to bother you,” Aaron said, “but Feldie’s got a guy downstairs who wants to see you. He looks like somebody out of Night of the Living Dead. Calls himself the Weaze.”

“Weasel? Hell, I thought he’d be dead by now.”

Without rushing, Stark refilled his mug and walked back with Aaron, a curly-haired kid who wore tassel loafers and suits and didn’t know a damn thing about baseball. Matthew knew he scared the hell out of Ziegler, but he didn’t let that trouble him.

“Feldie was getting pretty impatient,” Aaron said.

“Right.”

When they returned to the newsroom, she had put her glasses, big black-framed things, on her nose. “Don’t hurry, for Christ’s sake,” she said.

Stark didn’t. He hadn’t heard from Otis Raymond in a couple of years, but he’d had twenty years of his troubles and expected he’d have twenty more, if either of them lived that along. “Where’s the Weaze?” he asked.

“I parked him over at your desk. He says he has a hot tip for you. Who is he?”

“Nobody who’ll sell newspapers.”

Otis Raymond sat restlessly on a wooden chair next to Stark’s desk. Matthew just shook his head as he approached the thin, ugly figure and noticed the swollen bug bites along the back of the scrawny neck, the yellowed eyes and skin. He had on ragged jeans and an army issue jacket that didn’t look warm enough for him. He was shivering. It seemed crazy now, but lot of guys owed SP-4 Otis Raymond their lives. He’d been good. Damn good.

“Weaze,” Matthew said, coming up behind him. “So you’re alive.”

Weasel turned around on the chair, grinned, and rose unsteadily. His clothes hung on him, and he looked like hell. According to the book, he and Stark shouldn’t have become friends. A warrant officer and a spec-four, a helicopter pilot and a gunner. They’d flown Hueys together, and they’d survived two tours. Not many in their positions had. It was as good a reason as any for a friendship.

“Matt—yeah, hell, I’m still kicking. Christ, I’m hitting forty, you believe it?”

Stark went around and sat down, and Weasel dropped back in his chair, eyeing the cluttered desk. “Figured you’d have an office.”

“A piece of the wall is about the best you get in a newsroom.”

“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know much about this stuff. When’d you quit the Post?”

“Two years before the last time I saw you.”

“Oh. Right. Shit, man, I can’t remember nothing anymore.”

“You never could. What’s up?”

“I got trouble, Matt.”

Stark waited for him to go on, but Weaze was gnawing his thin, yellow-purple lower lip, and he’d crossed one foot over the other. Except when he was behind his M-60, he always had an excess of useless, unfocused energy. Stark had often wondered where Otis Raymond would be today if he’d been able to channel that energy.

“You gonna help?” Weaze asked.

“Maybe. What kind of trouble are you in?”

“Not me this time. Ryder.”

It wasn’t a name Stark wanted or expected to hear, but he kept his face from showing it. “What’s Ryder got to do with you?”

“I owe him. He tried to set me up after ’Nam, give me a hand, remember? I fucked up, made him look bad.”

“He survived. The Sam Ryders of the world always do. You don’t owe him a damn thing, Weaze. If anything, he owes you. Whatever trouble Ryder’s got, let him handle it.”

Weasel gave a honking snort, and Stark recalled that in the last ten years Otis always seemed to have a runny nose. “Shit, man, I thought I could count on you.”

“You can. Ryder can’t.”

“He’s in deep shit, Stark, and you know what a goddamn asshole he is, he’ll never learn, and if we don’t pull him out, he’ll go down. Man, I mean it. This time he’s in it.”

“That’s his problem.”

“May be a story in it for you.”

“Too much history between me and Sam Ryder, Weaze. No objectivity.”

“Then a book, maybe.”

Weasel somehow sounded both hopeful and smug, as if he’d struck the right note, the one that would make Matthew Stark do what his old buddy wanted him to do. “Forget it, Weaze,” Matthew said. “That part of my life is over.”

“Oh, come on—for old times’ sake, then?” Otis Raymond laughed hoarsely, coughing. “’Member the good ol’ days, huh, Matt?”

The good ol’days. Jesus. “You never change, Weaze. Go ahead, tell me what you’ve got. I’ll listen.”

Otis started chewing on the knuckle of his index finger, as if he’d gotten further than he’d expected and now didn’t know what to say.

“I can’t help,” Matthew said, “If you don’t level with me.”

“Hey, I’m doing the best I can.”

The Weaze had his own rhythms, and Stark knew better than to push. “What’re you doing in D.C.?”

“How do you know I haven’t been here all along?”

Weasel’s look was filled with challenge, saying he was just as good as Matthew Stark and anybody who didn’t believe it could go to hell. Getting a straight answer out of Otis Raymond had always been one big pain in the ass, Stark remembered. He managed a smile. “You wouldn’t stay anywhere the temperature falls below freezing.”

“Yeah, right.” Weaze laughed, one of his high-pitched, slightly hysterical laughs that always gave people goose bumps. It ended in a fit of coughing and then an ugly grin. “Fuck winter. I been to see Sam, that’s what I’m doing here. Had coffee together, me and Sam. Bought me breakfast. He’s doing good, you know? Man, I wouldn’t be surprised to see his ass in the White House. I’d vote for him, yeah, shit, why not?”

“No, forget it, I know you never liked him, but, you know, he means well.”

“I know too many good men who are dead because of Golden Boy Sammy Ryder and his good intentions. So do you, Weaze. No point in you being one of them.”

“Don’t make no difference to me if I am.”

Stark said nothing, knowing there was nothing he could say that would make any difference. He didn’t give a damn what kind of mess U.S. Senator Samuel Ryder, Jr., had gotten himself into, but Otis Raymond, crop-picker at fourteen, Huey door gunner at nineteen, was another matter. He was a loner and a survivor, and he considered the greatest accomplishment of his life not getting killed in Vietnam—and coming between Sam Ryder and a rush of AK-47 bullets. Since then, he hadn’t been able to slip quietly back into the daily routines of his old life. What Otis Raymond was and what he had been no longer mattered. The bond was there. Stark couldn’t abandon him.

“Sam wouldn’t like it if he knew I was here,” Otis said. “You make him nervous, you know.”

“Good.”

Weasel laughed a little. “Christ, you two. He’s got some plan, Ryder does, to get money to get himself out of the mess he’s in. He wouldn’t give me all the details, but it sounds nuts, really crazy, Matt. Says he’s going after a diamond, goddamn biggest uncut diamond in the fucking world. You believe it? Jesus, what a stupid asshole.”

Coming from Weasel, that was almost a compliment: it meant Ryder needed him.

“He’s meeting a guy tomorrow night at some concert at Lincoln Center—a Dutchman. Name’s Hendrik de Geer.”

“Know him?”

Weasel shrugged his bony shoulders and pulled out his pack of cigarettes, tapping one out unconsciously and sticking it on his dried, cracked lower lip. “Sort of. He’s nobody you can’t handle, Matt. I thought maybe you could show up tomorrow night and look into this thing.”

“Look into what?”

“The de Geer connection, what Sam’s got cooking with this diamond thing.”

“And begin where?”

“How the fuck do I know? You’re the reporter.”

“All right,” Matthew said. Sometimes he forgot what a cocky little shit Otis Raymond could be. “What about you? You want to hang out at my place until we figure this thing out?”

Weasel shook his head, lighting his cigarette. “Naw, can’t.” He grinned, showing crooked, badly yellowed teeth. “I gotta be heading back.”

“Where to?”

“Some place warmer, that’s for damn sure.”

“Weaze—”

“Buddy, don’t ask me questions I can’t answer. You do your thing, I’ll do mine.”

“He’s not worth it,” Stark said in a low voice.

“Man, who is? You gonna help or not?”

“Yeah. I’ll see what I can do—for your sake, not for Sam Ryder’s.”

The Weaze sniffled and coughed, his breathing rapid and noisy, and he laughed, a hollow, wheezing sound that Stark found utterly desolate, the sound of a wasted life. “You do remember,” he said in his raspy voice. “Man, I knew you would. I did good back in ’Nam, huh? I was okay there.”

Matthew felt his mouth suddenly go dry. Behind his stoicism and quiet air of competence, he’d always felt helpless where Otis Raymond was concerned. “You were the best, buddy.”

Dragging on his cigarette, Weasel headed out. He gave Feldie a grin that was almost a come-on, and Matthew had to laugh. He could hear his buddy’s out-of-tune whistle as he disappeared down the corridor. The stupid shit thought he’d won. That Matt Stark was on the story and all was well.

Stark stood up, feeling the sorrow and anger he always felt after he saw Otis Raymond, but he kept the mask in place, the one that said he was always in control, always at a distance. He picked up his coffee and went over to Feldie’s desk. She’d finally sat down, but he’d been aware of her looks in his direction—suspicious looks tinged with concern. Feldie was a stickler for facts—give people the facts, she said, and let them arrive at their own truths—and a damn fine editor, but she also cared. Trying to reform him gave her something to do besides going after facts and pleasing the big guns upstairs. But she’d never admit as much, and although Matthew admired her for it, what the hell. He’d had his fifteen minutes of fame. He still led a pretty good life, and as much as Feldie carped, he did get his assignments in, more or less on time. Maybe a few years ago he’d had the drive and ambition to do more—to make a difference. But that was a few years ago.

Feldie pulled off her glasses and snapped them closed. “Well, what did he have to say?”

“Nothing.”

“You two yakked it up enough.”

“Catching up.”

“On what? I want facts, Stark.”

“You don’t get facts from Otis Raymond.”

“You’re not going to tell me,” she said. There was resignation in her tone, and maybe a little respect.

Stark smiled. “Nothing to tell.”

“Christ, Stark, you drive me fucking crazy.”

“Without me around, who’d give you ulcers? I’m going up for some fresh coffee, you want anything?”

“No, jackass, I want you to tell me what that conversation was all about!”

Mug in hand, Stark started across the newsroom but, as if remembering something, turned back around. “Hey, Feldie, you want to do me a favor?”

“No. Sit your ass back down and tell me what that sorry-looking bastard wanted. He said he had something for you—”

“I’ll be taking the shuttle to New York tonight,” Matthew said, cutting her off, “probably spend the weekend. I’d like to take in tomorrow night’s concert at Lincoln Center, on the paper.”

She frowned, opening up her glasses with both hands. “Why?”

“Something to do while I’m in town. I figure the paper can afford to spring me a ticket.”

“You’re checking out something this Weaze character said, aren’t you? He gave you a hot tip.”

“I just like music.”

“Then who’s playing?”

“Has to be someone good.” He grinned. “It’s Lincoln Center, right?”

“Stark, damn you.”

But he ducked out for his coffee, leaving Alice Feldon sputtering.



Juliana immediately sensed her mother’s tension when she came to the table, but Catharina smiled tenderly and introduced her friend. Rachel Stein rose, also smiling. “Ahh, Juliana, I’m so happy to meet you at last. You could only be a Peperkamp.”

“You know my mother’s family?” Juliana was surprised: she had never met anyone who did. She knew Aunt Willie and Uncle Johannes, of course, but none of their friends, none of the people who’d known her mother when she had lived in The Netherlands. “You’re Dutch, aren’t you? I detect an accent.”

“We knew Rachel in Amsterdam,” Catharina supplied quickly.

“Yes, and I’m sorry I can’t stay,” Rachel said. “A pleasure meeting you, Juliana.”

“Likewise. You’re sure you can’t stay another minute? I’d love to talk.”

But Rachel hurried out, and Catharina swept away the remains of their tray and had a fresh one brought over. “It’s so good to see you, Juliana. I missed you. Now,” she said, filling two porcelain cups with hot tea, “tell me about your tour. Was it successful?”

“Yes, but, Mother—”

“A friend of mine heard you in Vienna. She said you were magnificent.”

Juliana sighed. She wasn’t going to hear about Rachel Stein. She considered asking but knew it would do no good. Only on rare occasions would her mother discuss her life in The Netherlands, and then in the most general terms. Even her father remained relatively ignorant of that phase of his wife’s life. Catharina Peperkamp Fall had survived five years of Nazi occupation when she was little more than a girl, and she’d left her homeland not on the best of terms with her family, especially Aunt Willie, who was, to say the least, difficult. She hadn’t seen her older brother and sister since the concert in Delftshaven seven years ago, and neither Wilhelmina nor Johannes would travel to the United States. But no matter how deep her own curiosity, Juliana hated to pry into a past her mother obviously didn’t want to discuss. In any case, she knew better. Catharina would only tell her daughter precisely what she wanted her to know, no more.

Already, simply by changing the subject she was exerting her will. If Juliana pressed for information on Rachel Stein, her mother would only get upset—and still would not talk about Rachel and how they’d known each other in Amsterdam and what she was doing in New York. You don’t need to know these things, her mother would say; they are of no consequence. You shouldn’t worry. You should be happy. They were the refrains, well-meaning but maddening, of Juliana’s childhood. She’d learned not to argue and, eventually, to keep quiet about her own problems, because they would always cause her mother more grief than they did herself. As a result, Catharina Fall had no idea her daughter was playing jazz incognito in a SoHo nightclub, no idea Shuji thought she was in a funk, no idea she both dreaded and looked forward to her long-awaited performance at Lincoln Center tomorrow night, her final concert of the year. Juliana wouldn’t tell her. Her mother would worry that something wasn’t quite perfect in her daughter’s world. And Juliana didn’t want her mother to worry.

“Tell me everything,” Catharina said.

Juliana did. At least everything her mother would want to hear.

When Stark returned to his desk an hour later, Alice Feldon had left a note on his keyboard. “I want a story out of this. You can pick up your ticket at Lincoln Center before the concert. By the way, Juliana Fall will be performing the Beethoven Piano Concerto No. 1 in C Major, Opus 15, with the New York Philharmonic. That’s Beethoven as in Ludwig van.”

Matthew grimaced. “Sounds like a yawner.”




Four


Master Sergeant (ret.) Phillip Bloch settled back in the oak swivel chair and watched a fat cockroach scurry across the pine floor of the rustic fishing camp he was using as his temporary headquarters. A rich man’s idea of country living. There was natural pine paneling on all the walls, a big fieldstone fireplace, lots of dark, sturdy furniture. He had a little fire going now, just to take the edge off, and the place glowed. It was a hell of a lot nicer than anything Bloch had ever known. But you couldn’t keep out the cockroaches. They crawled over a fancy hand-braided rug just as easily as over some old rag. Didn’t make no never-mind to them. Sometimes Bloch liked to catch the cockroaches, especially the fat ones, and squeeze them between his fingers. It was something to do to pass time. He’d hung around in enough of the cesspools of the world to have learned to amuse himself.

He pressed one knee up against the rolltop desk, a giant hunk of furniture, probably worth four thousand dollars. It was pushed up against a paneled wall, just beyond a double window with a view of the lake and a stand of tall, gangly yellow pine. Bloch was a tall, muscular man in his early fifties, gray-haired, square-jawed, a maniac about fitness and nutrition. His men called him a nuts and seeds freak. That was all right with him; he could kill ninety-nine percent of them with his bare hands. He made sure they knew it.

Right now he was listening to Sam Ryder whine to him from his office on Capitol Hill. United States Senator Ryder. Twenty years ago in Vietnam, Block had known Ryder would go far, and he’d cultivated his relationship with his platoon leader. Kept his eyes open. Listened. Ryder had a unique gift for making people think they were hearing what they wanted to hear when what he was telling them was damn near nothing. But Sammy Ryder did aim to please. At first Block had thought the handsome young lieutenant from central Florida and Georgetown knew exactly how he was wagging folks’ tails, but after a couple of months on patrol, the sergeant realized Ryder wasn’t talking in circles on purpose. It was just the way the poor dope thought. He believed what he was saying; he believed he was being forthright. He was absolutely, A-plus, fucking sincere.

“Don’t ever send Otis Raymond to me again,” Ryder said, but his words came out more as a plea than an order. He knew where he stood with Phillip Bloch. Never mind who had outranked whom; they’d straightened all that out twenty years ago. “If you have something to say to me, then say it yourself. I think that would be a more appropriate method of operation.”

“Okay, Sam. Fair enough.”

“Good.”

Bloch chuckled to himself: the stupid fuck thought he’d gotten his way. He kept his eyes on the cockroach, still moving slowly, and said congenially, “I like the idea of this diamond, Lieutenant.”

“I’m glad you do,” Ryder replied, obviously relieved. It was a crazy idea, that was for sure, but Bloch liked crazy ideas. No risk, no gain.

“I think you’re right: it could solve your problems and mine. So I wouldn’t screw up this opportunity if I were you, Lieutenant.”

“I have no intention of screwing up anything. Give me some time, Sergeant. I have no proof this diamond even exists, much less where it is. And—for the record—I’m a United States senator.”

Ryder knew who had the upper hand, but that didn’t stop him from using that cold, superior tone Bloch had always hated. It emphasized the class gulf between them. Ryder had everything: money, looks, power, reputation. But in Phil Bloch’s opinion, that didn’t change a damn thing. Maybe in other people’s eyes it did, but not in his. If Ryder had a reason to act superior, maybe Bloch wouldn’t have minded so much. But as far as he was concerned, Samuel Ryder, Jr., didn’t amount to a pile of cold shit.

“Yeah, you’re a senator all right,” the sergeant said, “for the time being.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The superior tone had vanished, and the awe and dread that had always been there underneath surfaced. Now that’s the real Sammy Ryder, Bloch thought. No backbone. It made him easier to manipulate than he liked to think. Bloch had gotten to be a master sergeant—had stayed alive—because he knew how to read people. He’d been a career military man, but from the beginning he’d planned for this day. Now that he was retired, he was finally able to set up a military camp the way he thought one ought to be set up. He’d already begun training and dispatching mercenaries. Ryder knew about that. But the good senator didn’t know about the arms dealing. During his army years, Bloch had managed to pull together a small, illegal arsenal of weapons and ammunition, which he was now using as his nest egg. If Sammy found out about that part of his business, he’d start screaming about scruples and the law and all that bullshit, mostly because he’d be scared shitless he’d get caught. Bloch didn’t want to have to listen to any more whining. The arsenal was only the beginning. He had bigger and better plans for the future. And he’d get there, no question about that. He just had to watch for opportunities, know how to capitalize on them—and know just when to turn the screws on “friends” in high places.

“Just stating the facts,” Bloch said, scratching the back of his neck. Damned bugs. He’d never get used to them. “You ain’t going to be a senator forever, Sam. Thinking about the White House one of these days, aren’t you? Be interesting, won’t it, having an ol’ skeleton like me rattling around in one of your closets. Better deal with me straight now, don’t you think?”

“I’m doing the best I can!”

“That’s what I like to hear. So tell me.” Bloch leaned back as the cockroach veered suddenly and started plodding across the huge, round braided rug toward the rolltop desk. “Is the Stein woman still on your ass?”

There was a shocked, horrified silence on the other end. No ragged breathing, no cry of outrage or despair, and no—thank God—whining. Bloch waited patiently, his eyes on the cockroach. It had slowed up, as if it knew where it was heading, but it didn’t change course, incapable, apparently, of doing anything now but move ahead.

“You know about her?”

“Sure, Sam.”

“But how? I never mentioned anything to you—or to Raymond. Was it de Geer? I can’t believe—”

“Hell, no, it wasn’t that damned Dutchman. I ain’t heard shit out of him since he left for New York. He’s an independent sonofabitch. I hope to hell this whole thing’s not riding on him. No, Sam, I heard about the Stein woman and her little visit to you from some people I have in Washington who let me know what’s going on. She spotted de Geer, recognized him, wants his ass for some crap that went on forty years ago. She’s been making a pain in the ass of herself. It got back to me.”

“You’ve got spies in my office?” Ryder’s voice squeaked with fear and indignation. “Damn it, Sergeant, I won’t stand for this! It’s bad enough you’re holed up in my fishing camp like a pack of rats, jeopardizing me and everything I and my family stand for, bad enough you send de Geer to me in the first place as your ‘intermediary’ to squeeze me dry when all I’ve ever done is cooperate with you, do everything in my power to accommodate you, but spies I will not tolerate!”

“Catch your breath and save the speech, Sammy. Way I see it, you don’t have much say-so about what I do or what I don’t do. Answer the question: is she or isn’t she still on your ass?”

Ryder was silent, and Bloch had no trouble envisioning Mr. Golden Boy weighing all his options. He always took his sweet time. Even in combat, no one could rush Sam Ryder when he had to make up his mind. So long as he saved his own butt, he didn’t worry about any other consequences of his stalling.

Finally, he said cautiously, “She thinks I’m going to help her. I don’t know what she’ll do when she finds out I have no intention of doing so. If I turn in de Geer—well, it’s unthinkable. At the moment all she can do is make accusations. She has no proof of a direct connection between me and de Geer. However, if she goes to the press with this, and they decide to investigate, anything could happen. They could even end up on your doorstep, Sergeant. Ryder hesitated. “I’m not sure it’s wise to say where you are—for your sake.”

“Oh, hell, Sammy, don’t deny me my fun. Wouldn’t it be a sight?” Bloch snorted. “A bunch of reporters’ coffins all lined up, ready to go in the ground, for messing with old Phil Bloch. Look, I want you to let me worry about Rachel Stein.”

“She’s not your problem, Sergeant. Don’t get involved. Let me handle things on this end.”

“Sure, sure. I’ll just keep working my ass off down here and hoping you don’t fuck up. Biggest uncut diamond in the world, you say? Shit-fire, sure, I’ll let you handle it.” Bloch dropped the mock-amiable tone as he sat forward. “Listen, you goddamn asshole, don’t you tell me what the fuck to do. You’re the one who got his stupid butt in a sling, not me. If you weren’t such a stupid fuckup to begin with, you wouldn’t have to worry about guys like me.”

Ryder didn’t say a word.

“Got that, Senator?”

“I should hang up,” Ryder said stiffly.

“Yeah, but you won’t. Not until you tell me what you’re doing to get hold of the diamond.”

“Sergeant, one day—”

“One day you’re going to see me in hell, but that’s about all, Lieutenant. Talk.”

“You leave me no choice.”

“That’s the whole idea, Sammy.”

When Ryder finished, Bloch hung up and leaned back, thinking. He had a few men he could trust. They might not be ready to die for him yet, but they’d do a job or two. He called them in.

The cockroach had made it to the foot of his chair. Bloch sighed at the inevitability of it all. You wait, you’re patient, you act when the situation demands, and everything just works out.

He bent down, picked up the cockroach, and squeezed.




Five


Rachel Stein arrived at Lincoln Center early and waited in the lobby, staring outside at the dusting of snow on the plaza and the glittering holiday lights. She hadn’t seen snow in years. It brought back the past, and she remembered prowling the streets of Amsterdam with her brothers and sisters and cousins, all gone now, all dead. She’d felt so safe there, before the war. Jewish refugees from Germany and the east had begun to flood in, but they’d all told themselves persecution couldn’t happen here, not in Amsterdam. Sometimes if she let her mind drift, she could hear the laughter of all those she’d loved and see their smiles, so bright, so innocent, and the other sounds and images wouldn’t invade, the cries, the prayers, the skeletons. Abraham said he’d blocked out everything. He never cast his mind back prior to the moment he’d planted his two worn shoes on American soil, ready to work hard, making a success of himself. He couldn’t even speak Dutch anymore; he’d forgotten it completely. He said he wanted other people to remember, but not himself.

Rachel might have envied him, if she believed him.

As she stared outside, she watched a fat snowflake float slowly to the ground, as if coming from nowhere, and she imagined herself dead, her body lying in a field, its fluids seeping into the soil, mingling with the water there and then condensing into the air, into clouds, becoming snowflakes. She imagined her friends, her family, all making up parts of a snowflake, together once more. A pleasant warmth spread through her.

All these thoughts of dying! Well, why not? She wasn’t afraid. Not since she was eighteen had she been afraid of death. You live, you die. Everyone did.

“Well, good evening, Miss Stein.”

She turned at the sound of Senator Ryder’s voice and had to smile at his infectious charm. “Don’t you look dashing tonight, Senator,” she said in her soft, hoarse voice. “So handsome!”

He laughed. “Thank you. And you look lovely, as always.”

He was lying, of course. Her simple black dress made her look thinner, even older. Not that she cared. It was a good dress. Forty years ago a slice of bread had seemed such a luxury. Now she had so much: a big house, a housekeeper, a gardener, a grand wardrobe. When she died, her nephews would get rid of the help and sell everything else and invest the profits. They didn’t need anything she had. I must change my will, she thought suddenly. Although she wasn’t a religious woman, she decided she would contact a rabbi when she returned to Palm Beach and ask him to suggest appropriate charities. Her nephews might be annoyed with her, but the “sacrifice” would be good for them, perhaps encourage them to be more generous in life than she’d been, thinking she never had time for it.

Politely taking her arm, Senator Ryder escorted her down the wide aisle to the orchestra seats. She noticed the looks they received from other well-to-do concert-goers who, of course, recognized the handsome senator. She could just imagine what they were thinking. He was single, divorced from a pretty, shy woman who, it was said, couldn’t tolerate the scrutiny of a public life, although what other kind of life she’d expected to have with a member of the Ryder family, Rachel didn’t know. She’d left him shortly after his election to the Senate. No children had been involved. Now Ryder escorted a variety of women, always elegant and always beautiful, to different functions, but Rachel supposed he was never seen with someone like herself, tiny and wrinkled and unwilling to smile just for the sake of smiling.

“I’m glad you came,” the senator said as they took their aisle seats.

“I am, too.”

It was warm in the hall, and Rachel felt tired. Since tea with Catharina, she’d had her doubts about tonight. Perhaps it had been wrong to involve her old friend, wrong to put her in the position of having to avoid her own daughter’s questions. If she’d had a child, Rachel wondered, would she feel the same need to protect her from the past? She felt her spine stiffening. I would kill Hendrik de Geer before I let him touch a child of mine! Or of a friend? Although Juliana Fall wasn’t her daughter, Rachel felt a keen responsibility toward her, and she’d promised Catharina. You’re not like Hendrik, she told herself. If you make a promise, you must do everything in your power to keep it.

Ryder gave her one of his heart-melting smiles. “I assume Mrs. Fall is here?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. I look forward to meeting her.”

The lights dimmed, and Rachel could feel the senator’s strong shoulder brush up against her. Such an honest face, such a handsome man. She didn’t trust him.



Matthew slouched down in the soft seat, deciding he looked absorbed in the concert rather than bored, but not caring either way. Leave it to Feldie to get him a ticket down in the front with the tuxedos and designer gowns. He hadn’t worn a tuxedo in his life and didn’t intend to start now, but, still, Feldie would have no grounds to gripe. His outfit—deep berry wool jacket, dark gray wool polo shirt, and dark gray wool pants—had cost him more than the Gazette paid him in a week. She wouldn’t, however, be happy about his shoes. He had on his Gokeys.

Sam Ryder was a half-dozen rows down to Stark’s right, but Matthew had taken no pleasure in having instantly spotted the senator among the sold-out crowd. He wasn’t with a Dutchman. He was with a small old woman Matthew didn’t recognize. He and Sam Ryder lived in the same town and once upon a time, at least for a while, had operated in the same social circles. But the junior senator from Florida had always preferred to think that Matthew Stark no longer existed. It was just as well.

Says he’s going after a diamond, goddamn biggest uncut diamond in the fucking world. You believe it?

Weasel talk. Still, this was U.S. Senator Samuel Ryder with whom they were dealing, and, yeah, Stark thought, I believe it.

“Ah, Weaze, my friend,” he thought as the Schubert symphony wore on, “what have you gotten me into this time?”



Juliana shoved her black leather satchel into an out-of-the-way corner of her dressing room and tried to put its contents out of her mind. A 1936 black crepe dress, rose-colored stockings and matching T-strap shoes, a multicolored sequined turban, a Portuguese shawl that used to hang over Grandmother Fall’s piano in her proper Philadelphia home, and a bag of bright makeup. All of it was pure J.J. Pepper. Juliana knew she was taking a chance, but there had been a cancellation and Len had offered her the Club Aquarian stage at eleven. She’d never played for the late-night crowd. How could she refuse? “Oh, Len, I can’t, I’m doing Lincoln Center tonight.” God. She’d told him she’d be thrilled.

But it meant leaving directly from Lincoln Center and making a risky, mad dash down to SoHo.

She had to be crazy.

She’d planned carefully. She’d change into the black dress backstage after the concert and put on her black boots and black cashmere coat. In the cab, she’d pull the turban on over her blond hair, so she wouldn’t have to tint it pink or purple or whatever, and drape Grandmother Fall’s shawl over her coat, to make it look more J.J. Len would recognize cashmere when he saw it, but she’d have to take her chances. Finally, she’d slip into J.J.’s rose-colored shoes and gob on some makeup. She’d already have the stockings on; nobody would see those under the boots.

It was all, she thought, a matter of timing and guts.

But first she had a Beethoven concerto to perform. She breathed deeply, shut her eyes, and focused her energy, and for once the prospect of a memory lapse held no terror for her whatsoever. Forgetting a passage in front of a sold-out Lincoln Center audience, the New York Philharmonic Orchestra, and one of the world’s great conductors, she thought, was the least of her troubles.

“You’ve lit your candle at both ends,” she said to herself, “and if you don’t watch it, your ass is going to get burned.”



Holding his emotions rigidly in check, Ryder survived the first half of the concert. He had cultivated a taste for classical music, but he’d been relieved to see he wouldn’t have to sit through any difficult modern compositions. Even so, he found himself twitching with impatience. He wanted tonight over and done with—another tactical objective achieved.

During the intermission, he resisted looking around for de Geer, uncertain the Dutchman would actually be inside the concert hall. He smiled only briefly at Rachel Stein, trying to discourage conversation. He realized they had nothing more to say until they met with Catharina Fall, a meeting he was confident wouldn’t last long. He was playing a dangerous game, manipulating Rachel Stein, Phil Bloch, Hendrik de Geer. But what choice did he have? Everything would work out.

“Have you seen Juliana Fall perform?” the old woman at his side asked.

Catharina Fall’s daughter. Her appearance tonight had provided him with a convenient way of getting everyone together with the least possible risk. The women wouldn’t have to see de Geer; the Dutchman could see them, from the lobby, from inside the concert hall, or from outside. It made no difference to Ryder. He was quite confident de Geer wouldn’t want to risk a face-to-face confrontation with either woman. It was all so easy. Providential.

“No,” he replied. “I haven’t had the opportunity, although I understand she’s very good.”

“Phenomenal, I’ve been told. So we must pay attention.”

How could he listen to a piano concerto when all he wanted to do was to move on to the next objective? But he knew he had to wait until the end of the concert. He clenched his teeth and said nothing as the pianist strode out onto the stage.

Then he couldn’t have spoken if he’d wanted to.

Juliana Fall. My God, he thought, how have I missed her?

She was a vision. Everything about her was beautiful, elegant, heart-stopping. She was draped in flowing ice blue, her only jewelry a simple sapphire pendant, and her hair, the lightest of blonds, bounced on her shoulders. Her skin was translucent. When she smiled at the audience, it was as if something big and hard slammed into his chest, and he couldn’t get enough air. He forgot about the old woman at his side, about the diamond, about the predicament he was in, about Hendrik de Geer and Phillip Boch and all the sordidness he had to face. Now he couldn’t stop staring. Nothing mattered except the woman on stage.

“She’s lovely, isn’t she?” Rachel Stein said, irritatingly matter-of-fact.

Ryder gave a curt nod. His jaw ached. He took a quick, sustaining breath. Never had he been so affected by a woman.

The crowd settled down as Juliana Fall sat at the piano, and the concerto began. Sam Ryder never took his eyes from her. He studied how her long fingers danced on the keyboard, how her expressive face changed with the music, how she used her entire body to bring forth the incredible sounds from her instrument. Her concentration seemed unshakable. It was as if no one else was there, just her and the orchestra. There was a wildness, a sense of daring to her performance that Ryder hadn’t expected. She seemed always on the verge of going over the edge, of making a mistake that would leave her audience gasping and horrified.

What would it be like to have her concentrate like that on him? To have that wildness unleashed in bed? Ryder felt the stirring of an erection and shifted, hoping Stein wouldn’t notice, and then he realized he’d been biting down hard on a knuckle. He pulled his hand from his mouth, and immediately his fingers formed a tight fist. He shoved his hand into his lap.

He wasn’t aware that the concerto had ended until the people around him were jumping to their feet, roaring and clapping, and suddenly he remembered where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. He rose unsteadily, grasping the back of the seat in front of him.



Hendrik de Geer had found the concert interminable and was glad it was over. He was not a man who endured immobility well—nor United States senators who played games with him. The Dutchman took some small pleasure in observing Sam Ryder’s reaction to Juliana Fall. She was very attractive, but there was something remote and untouchable about her. Yet she had that zany streak that made her paint her hair pink and dress up in strange clothes, nothing like the dress she wore tonight. Hendrik felt a strange protectiveness toward her. He wouldn’t want a man like Ryder to get too close to this unpredictable young woman, this child of Catharina.

Inside him, an alarm went off, and Hendrik reminded himself that he was a practical man. He never permitted himself to let sentiment motivate his actions or force him to make mistakes, although, of course, he understood how well sentiment could motivate others and force them to make mistakes.

Once more he looked across the seats, down from his on the left, and saw Rachel Stein. It would be dangerous, he knew, to let the past influence his judgment of her and the situation. He had never anticipated seeing her again. Hers was a name he had learned not to remember, even in his nightmares. His unconscious couldn’t tolerate the thought of her, of her family, of what he, with all his good intentions, had left happen to them. Yet tonight there she was, so small and self-righteous—and so old. He remembered what a pretty mite she’d been. He used to love to bring her gifts, to see the light in those dark, intense eyes. Now she hated him. There was no forgiveness in her heart; she believed she was the only one ever to have suffered. Such arrogance, Hendrik thought.

Seeing her again, he’d almost lost control of himself. But what would that have accomplished? Senator Ryder had invited Rachel Stein to Lincoln Center tonight for a reason, and Hendrik, too, for a reason. Instead of falling apart, the Dutchman decided to wait and see what those reasons were. He had a fair idea already, but he had to know for certain.

He didn’t join the standing ovation. Ryder would be furious if Hendrik let himself be seen, but he didn’t care. He left the concert hall, moving quickly up the aisle, his eyes focused straight ahead. Catharina would be here tonight. If she saw him, she would say nothing. Hendrik could almost feel her shock, her hatred as he thought of her. His breathing became rapid, and he felt a stitch in his side, but he didn’t slacken his pace.

Trust me, my Catharina.

But of course she never would.



Ryder’s reaction to Juliana Fall had been more visceral than to anyone he’d ever met in his life, but sensing Rachel Stein watching him, he tried to control it.

“Juliana’s quite a performer,” the old woman said quietly.

“Yes, amazing.” Ryder coughed as he fought to recover his composure, hoping this impossible woman didn’t notice how little he had left. “She’s an amazing talent.”

On stage, Juliana Fall took her bows alone, with the conductor, with the entire orchestra. Her smile was dazzling. Her shining hair flopped carelessly down the front of her shoulders as she gave her final bow. Ryder could almost feel its softness on his fingers.

“You must understand something, Senator Ryder,” Rachel said.

“Please—not now. In a moment.”

She ignored him. “Hendrik de Geer is the kind of man who would destroy Juliana Fall if he felt he had to to save himself.”

Ryder swung around. “No!”

“You heard me,” she said calmly.

Ryder swallowed, fighting himself. The manipulative little witch! But he couldn’t lose control, not now. Juliana Fall was an unexpected twist; he’d expected to find her as distasteful as her mother’s friend. Ryder was furious. This wasn’t at all what he’d planned! Rachel Stein was the one to have been caught off balance.

“Once I was young and beautiful and talented, as was Juliana’s mother,” Rachel said wistfully, “but Hendrik de Geer robbed us of that, he and his Nazi friends.”

I don’t care! Ryder thought wildly. He had to finish it now and regain the momentum. People were streaming into the aisle. “I’m very sorry about your past, Miss Stein, and I’m sympathetic to your suffering.” He paused, feeling his sense of control seeping back into him. Yes, he thought, I can handle this. “I wish I could help you bring this de Geer to justice, but I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. I know a good deal less about him than you do yourself and have been unable to learn more. If you wish to bring charges against him for his actions in Amsterdam during Word War II, I can only encourage you, although I must warn you that you’re unlikely to get very far. Greater criminals than he have gone free. In any case, I have to tell you that what you choose to do from this point is your responsibility.”

Rachel Stein made no response. She simply nodded dully, as if she’d withdrawn into herself, as if she were sorry she’d ever believed in him or anyone else. Ryder brushed off the stirrings of pity. The woman’s maudlin, he told himself, and there is nothing I can do.

He added, “I only met de Geer that one time.” He sighed, lifting his shoulders in a helpless, innocent shrug. “As I told you, I had no idea of his Nazi past.”

“Then there’s no point in our meeting with Catharina going forward,” Rachel said tightly.

“I’d like to explain my position to her—”

“Why waste your time? In fact, why did you even bother with tonight if you knew you could do nothing? A telephone call would have been sufficient.”

“I felt the need to tell you in person, face to face. And I didn’t give up trying to get information on de Geer until right before the concert.”

Her dark, intense eyes shot up at him. “I don’t believe you, Senator. I should have known from the beginning that you would do nothing to help me. Hendrik de Geer is responsible for the deaths of twelve people, but they were not Florida voters, were they? Well, I am not ready to give in, not yet. You say you met Hendrik only that one time? All right. I will find out if you speak the truth. I will find out if there’s any connection between you and Hendrik de Geer.” She narrowed her eyes, her anger and determination palpable. “I will find out.”

Still fuming, she marched past him.

Sam Ryder watched the tiny, shattered woman disappear into the crowd drifting toward the lobby, but he didn’t dare relax. She would leave and accept that her threats were empty, but, nevertheless, Ryder no longer felt that telling Bloch about her had been such an act of weakness. Surely, though, she was intelligent enough to recognize her defeat. There’d be no more calls, no more visits, no more letters. He was sorry not to meet Catharina Fall, in case she would have been able to provide more leverage for him against de Geer, but at least he’d gotten rid of Rachel Stein. One tactical objective achieved. Now on to the next. The Dutchman would be waiting outside in Ryder’s car.

But Juliana Fall…

Ryder admitted he didn’t want to involve her in his difficulties, but he didn’t see that he’d have to. She was a pianist. Beautiful, unforgettable. He would just have to leave her out of it and concentrate on making de Geer do his bidding.

Yet, as he walked stiffly out into the aisle, he looked longingly back toward the stage. It seemed so empty. She was back there, somewhere, accepting congratulations, flowers.

De Geer can wait, he thought. You’re a United States senator. Use your influence.

He threw his coat over his arm and headed backstage.



Adrian Fall took his wife’s arm as she stumbled into the aisle. He was a tall, fair-skinned man with handsome, angular features, and she loved him dearly. He had come into her life just when she’d begun to believe she would never be able to love and trust anyone again, and he’d taken her away from Amsterdam, from her past, from her memories. He understood that these were things she couldn’t talk about. He never pressed her, just allowed her to be what she was. Together they’d spoiled and adored Juliana, building a new life, their own life. He was a quiet, dear, understanding man, but right now she wished he’d just stayed home tonight. He knew nothing of Rachel Stein, nothing of Hendrik de Geer. How could she explain to him?

“Catharina,” he said, worried, “what is it? Are you all right?”

She gulped for air, not seeing him. She was white, shaking all over. “Yes, fine, I just…” There wasn’t enough air! I’m going to faint. “A headache.”

“You’re hyperventilating. I think I’d better get you home.”

Home, she thought vaguely, trying to stop gulping for air now that Adrian had told her what was wrong. There was too much oxygen in her bloodstream already. Ah, Adrian, always so steady, so right. Her mother used to say the best cure for hyperventilation was a bag over the head. Oh, Mamma! Her mother would be strong now. She wouldn’t simply go home. She wouldn’t be tempted to lock herself in her rooms high above Park Avenue and never come out.

Catharina stretched herself and put a shaky hand to her mouth. My God, she thought, I’ve seen him too. Hendrik! She had sensed he would be here tonight. He had walked right past her, and she’d only caught a glimpse of him. It was enough. His face was seared in her memory.

She touched Adrian’s hand, letting his warmth anchor her in the present. She had to warn Rachel that Hendrik was here. That much she had to do, no matter her shock and fear. “I’m supposed to meet a friend,” she told her husband softly.

Adrian shook his head firmly, the stolid, practical banker. “You’re in no condition to meet anyone.”

Catharina looked down the aisle toward the seats where Rachel had sat with her senator. Rachel was gone already, and Senator Ryder—

“No!”

He was making his way backstage! Had Rachel misled her? Had she decided to involve Juliana after all? With a mad lunge, Catharina shot out into the aisle, but Adrian grabbed her by the waist, and she crumpled against him.

“Darling,” he said gently, “let me take you home.”

She was so grateful for her husband, for his goodness, but now she struggled against him, telling herself this time she had to fight, she had to go to her daughter and protect her from this. “Juliana—”

“She’ll understand, Catharina. You don’t have to congratulate her after every performance. She knows she has your undying support. Look, I’ll call her in the morning. Besides, Shuji’s here tonight.” Adrian gave her a small smile, maintaining a sense of false cheer, but there was no answering twinkle in his wife’s eyes. He was terrified. “They’ll have to have their postperformance fight. You wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

“You don’t understand…”

“I think I do. You’re not yourself tonight. Catharina, you can’t do everything. You can’t be all things to all people. You’re overtired. We’ll go up to Connecticut for a few days if you want.” They had an old farmhouse they were restoring themselves in Litchfield County. “The air will do you good.”

Catharina found herself unable to argue, and she nodded meekly, feeling foolish, a child again, the silly, innocent girl whom everyone had tried to protect. She went with Adrian into the lobby but still looked around madly for Rachel. What was happening? Rachel, my God, where are you? Was their meeting off? If not, what would she tell Adrian? If so, what would she do next? Go home and pretend none of this had ever happened?

But Rachel was gone, and Adrian, his arm tight around his wife, led Catharina toward the exit. When they were outside in the cold December night, she looked back toward the bright lights of the performing arts center and felt herself strangling with indecision.

Adrian opened a cab door, and she climbed inside.



Sam Ryder had gotten waylaid by an elderly gentleman and his fur-coated wife, and Stark was able to beat him backstage, where he knew Sam would be headed just as soon as he got rid of the old couple. Matthew had seen the senator’s reaction to Juliana Fall. He had to admit she’d nearly knocked him out of his seat when she’d walked on stage, but he could keep his perspective. An ex–chopper pilot, ex-author, ex-famous reporter and an internationally known concert pianist just weren’t going to make it. Fantasyland. Besides, she was probably just your basic airhead artistic type who would say, “Matthew Stark?” Which, he realized, more and more people were doing these days.

Sam Ryder, however, didn’t think like that. He’d never met a woman who didn’t want anything to do with him, and he assumed none existed. Maybe Matthew was wrong, and Juliana Fall would drop dead for him. But he didn’t think so.

He flashed his press credentials and approached her dressing room, ducking aside, within earshot but out of sight. He grinned to himself: hot-shot reporter that you are, snooping on a piano player. A good-looking Asian guy stalked past him and went in to see Ms. Pianist herself.

“Shuji—Jesus Christ, scare the shit out of me, why don’t you!”

Matthew felt the corners of his mouth twitch. Shit? Well, he thought, maybe Ryder hadn’t met any Dutchman and Weaze had sent him on a wild goose chase, but it seemed poor old Sammy Ryder just might need Stark’s help after all—to rescue him from one Juliana Fall.



Juliana guiltily shoved the black crepe dress behind her and manufactured a welcoming smile for Shuji. “Sorry,” she said, “but you startled me. How are you?”

Banalities, she thought. Shuji hated them, and he frowned at her because, of course, she should have known better. She had not asked the obvious questions. What did you think of my performance tonight, Shuji? Did I sound like I’m in a funk? She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answers, even if she had time, which she decidedly did not.

“Interesting performance,” Shuji said.

From long experience, Juliana realized that could mean anything. She dropped her dress, ever so casually, on a chair. Crumpled up, it looked like a normal black dress. A few months old instead of fifty years. Something Juliana Fall might wear to a postconcert dinner.

“You were on tonight,” Shuji continued, folding his arms across his chest. He was dressed entirely in black, as was his custom, and looked as fit and energetic as ever. His only vice was an occasional cigarette. “But still I heard something. I’m not sure I liked it, but I’m not sure, either, that what I heard is without possibilities. I’ve been thinking, Juliana, and—”

“Look, Shuji,” Juliana interrupted, a perilous act in and of itself, trying not to show she was in a tearing hurry, “whatever it is, I’ll listen for it, all right? But right now I’m tired.”

If possible, his frown deepened. “You don’t want to discuss this?”

“No.”

“All right.” He spoke tightly, gazing at her through narrowed eyes, and she knew it decidedly was not all right. “Are you still planning to go to Vermont?”

“For a few days, yes. I need some time out.”

“I thought we’d agreed you wouldn’t go.”

Oh, shit, she thought, will you just leave?

Shuji walked around, pacing angrily, and picked up her sequined turban, which she’d forgotten completely. “What the hell’s this?”

“A turban.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know. It’s not mine. Someone must have left it here.” She huffed in frustration. “Damn it, Shuji, a few days in Vermont isn’t a vacation. The way I’ve been going, it’s hardly even a break. Don’t ruin it for me, okay? Look, I don’t want to argue with you, and anyway now’s not a good time to talk. I’m in a hurry. I forgot you were coming, and I made plans.”

There, she’d said it. Shuji spun around toward her, his narrowed eyes flashing angrily. “You forgot I was coming?”

She almost smiled—she’d known that would get him off the track. “I’ve been rattled lately—which is one reason I could use a break.”

“I take time from my own busy schedule to attend this concert, and you forgot I was coming? You ungrateful little witch!” He slammed the palms of his hands together with a restrained fury she found reassuring. Eric Shuji Shizumi was always easier to deal with when he was roaringly pissed. “How the hell have I put up with you all these years!”

“Just be glad you never married me,” Juliana said lightly, attempting to diffuse his anger.

Shuji just glared at her.

A gentle rap on the door interrupted them, and Shuji hissed impatiently but quickly recovered his poise as a tall, boyishly handsome man poked his head in and said, “Excuse me—”

Juliana held back a groan. “Yes, what is it?”

“Be nice,” Shuji warned under his breath. “Wouldn’t want your public to think you’re a snot.”

She resisted making a face at him. He gave her a wry, nasty grin and, without another word, stormed out. Damn him, Juliana thought, damn him, damn him, why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss Fall,” the man in the doorway said. He gave her a dashing smile that was unexpectedly sincere. “I’m Samuel Ryder.”

He paused, obviously expecting that she would recognize his name. She didn’t. She did, however, notice his eyes, a dreamy baby blue, a child’s eyes in a man’s face. They were oddly appealing—and somehow disturbing, perhaps because the rest of him seemed so polished and sophisticated. She said automatically, “Pleased to meet you.”

“I wanted to congratulate you on your performance this evening.” He came into the dressing room, at once bold and tentative. “This was my first opportunity to hear you, and I assure you, it won’t be my last. You were mesmerizing.”

She hadn’t heard that line in a while but silently chastised herself for being so cynical. Maybe he meant it. “Thank you,” she said politely. “It’s very nice of you to take the time to tell me so personally.” Now will you leave so I can become someone else?

He didn’t seem to know what to say next. On purpose, she’d left him no natural opening. He caught himself twisting his fingers together and suddenly shoved them into the pockets of his elegant evening overcoat. It was unbuttoned and underneath was a stylish black tuxedo over an obviously trim body. Juliana could almost hear her friends telling her not to be so damn critical—a rich, handsome, interested man was a rich, handsome, interested man.

She felt a touch of sympathy for him. He looked so lost, so lonely. Had she had that effect on him, her music? The Beethoven was a powerful piece. Yet she knew if Samuel Ryder was attracted to her, even just for tonight, it had little to do with her performance or who she really was. Experience had taught her that. Like others before him, Samuel Ryder was taken with his own fantasies about who she was and what she could mean to him. He was captivated by his own image of her. He knew nothing substantive about her temperament, her family, her intense, volatile, nonromantic relationship with Shuji. He knew nothing about J.J. Pepper.

She suspected Samuel Ryder wouldn’t approve of J.J.

But there was something so sweet and melancholy about the way he looked at her that she couldn’t be angry with him for his assumptions, nor could she denigrate how he felt. He was good-looking enough that she wondered if she was being too nasty in wanting to get rid of him. Even Shuji, who rarely noticed such things, had once commented that she was entirely too picky about men. Maybe he had a point. But Len’s baby grand at the Club Aquarian was waiting. Should she invite Ryder along? No, don’t be an ass! J.J. was her secret.

She smiled and watched his eyes melt. “It was nice meeting you, Mister Ryder, but if you’ll—”

Another man appeared in the doorway. He was dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a hard, scarred face that Juliana found both compelling and a little frightening. His clothes were expensive but casual—and sexy. The face, the attire, the tough, compact body all seemed to go with the deep sardonic voice. “Hey, Sam, thought that was you.” He walked in, uninvited, and nodded at Juliana. “Ms. Fall.”

I will never get out of here, she thought.

But Ryder’s reaction interested her. He had stiffened visibly and paled. “Stark—Matthew,” he said, managing a smile as he put out his hand. There was no friendship in the gesture. Whoever Matthew Stark was, Sam Ryder didn’t want any part of him. “It’s been a long time.”

“I guess it has,” Stark said, shaking hands briefly. “I caught the concert and spotted you. Thought I’d say hello.”

That’s bullshit, Juliana thought unexpectedly. Matthew Stark had anticipated the effect he would have on Sam Ryder. But that, she reminded herself, was hardly her problem. “If you gentlemen don’t mind—”

Matthew turned and grinned at her look of controlled frustration. “Come on, Sam, we’re in the lady’s way. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“I’m sorry—bad night.” Regaining his composure, Ryder turned to Juliana, his baby blue eyes shining with embarrassment and anger. “I apologize for the intrusion.”

Juliana bit back a laugh when she realized he meant Stark, not himself. “It’s all right,” she said, not caring whom he meant, just so long as they both got out of her way.

“Miss Fall, I was wondering—” Ryder stopped himself, red-faced, and glared at Stark, who just smiled back, staying put. Ryder turned back to Juliana, obviously controlling his anger. “It’s been a pleasure.”

He brushed past Stark, who was leaning against the open door, looking relaxed and distant. Juliana felt bad for Ryder and realized Stark’s presence had prevented him from asking her to dinner, which, she supposed, was just as well. She hoped Stark would take the hint and move along, too. But he didn’t. To hell with him, she thought, whipping up the turban and tossing it back into her bag with her rose-colored shoes. He could stay if he wanted. She was leaving.

“Nice turban,” he said. “Didn’t peg you for the sequins type.”

She gave him an ice-cold look. “Excuse me, won’t you?”

Stark made no move to get out of her way. “Take it easy,” he said, his own equanimity in stark contrast to her almost compulsive energy. “I’m on my way, okay?”

She almost told him good, go. Instead she remembered her position and Shuji’s lectures on how to treat her public, although somehow she didn’t think this solid, hard man fit into that category. Had he pulled an Aunt Wilhelmina and snored through the Beethoven? Why was he here?

“I take it you don’t know much about Sam Ryder,” Stark said.

She picked up her black crepe and considered just starting to undress right in front of him, but her eyes fell on his, dark and remote, and she reconsidered. “No, we just met tonight. Now—”

“You called him Mister.”

“So?”

“He’s a senator. I guess you didn’t know that.”

“A senator—oh, shit.”

“A U.S. senator,” Stark said, adding, “That’s U.S. as in United States.”

She rolled her tongue inside her cheek. Stark’s eyes, she noticed, seemed black, but she couldn’t be sure. “I’m not amused.”

“I didn’t think you would be.”

“And who are you?”

“Ah ha. The name Matthew Stark doesn’t jingle any bells behind those cool green eyes. My how the mighty have fallen. You and my editor ought to get together.”

Should she have heard of him? Probably not, she decided. He was just trying to annoy her—and succeeding remarkably well. “Mr. Stark, I’m running late.”

“As I said, I’m on my way. Just one more thing.” He placed one hand high on the door-jamb and looked at her. She could feel the sweat on the stray wisps around her hairline, dripping slowly between her breasts, matting her dress to her. She was hot and madder than hell but trying not to let him know it—and, at the same time, she felt herself daring him. Egging him on. He grinned at her. “If I were you, toots, I’d tell this Shuji character to stick it and head for Vermont.” He straightened up. “Night.”

Her back stiffening, Juliana gave him a steely look. His eyes seemed to change from black to a dark, dark brown, warmth coming into them, excitement. Toots, she thought, almost dispassionately. She couldn’t remember ever being called toots.

Stark was already out the door. Juliana shook out her black dress, putting all her pent-up irritation into the effort. Toots, for God’s sake. As for Vermont and Shuji—

How had Stark known about Vermont?

She leaped out the door after him. “You bastard, you eavesdropped on me and Shuji!”

Matthew Stark turned around and grinned. “That’s right. Bumped into him on his way out. Told him I thought you deserved a break, too. Lucky I read my program notes or I wouldn’t have known who he was.”

“You’ve never heard of Shuji?”

“Not until tonight. Last music I listened to was by George Thorogood and the Destroyers.”

It was something to seize on, and Juliana laughed, returning to her dressing room and shutting the door.



Matthew got the hell out of there—fast, before he did something he’d really regret. Like tell Juliana Fall she had the sexiest damn laugh he’d heard in ages. The lady was an artsy-fartsy type and damned cool, but he’d seen the impatience all over her stiff, trim little body. What was she in such a big hurry over? A man? No, he doubted she’d get into such a state over something as simple as a lover, romance, anything like that. Most men would be happy to wait for her, and he suspected she knew it. Ryder sure as hell would. Hell, I might, too, Stark thought, remembering how sweat had made the thin silk of her dress cling to her breasts, outlining their shape. Forget love and romance. Maybe a night of romping, good sex would put her in a hurry.

Shame on you, Matt, the lady probably doesn’t do stuff like that.

Not, he thought, seeing those deep, dark gorgeous eyes of hers once more, that she wouldn’t be damn good at it.

He wondered what he was going to tell Feldie.

The hell with it, he thought, why start worrying about that kind of thing at this late date? He went for a beer and thought some more about Juliana Fall’s laugh.




Six


Hendrik de Geer was smoking a cigar in the back seat of Ryder’s chauffeured car, waiting on Broadway, when the tall senator slid in next to him breathing hard and obviously agitated. “Put that thing out,” he said sharply, snatching a silk handkerchief from his pocket. He didn’t bother to shake the folds from it before he wiped his brow. “I hate cigars.”

The Dutchman shrugged impassively and put out his cigar, which he would finish later, in privacy. Ryder balled up his handkerchief and shoved it into the pocket of his overcoat, and Hendrik wondered, with some amusement, just how badly the pretty pianist Juliana Fall had treated him. With the skill of the practiced politician, Ryder composed himself. “You were at the concert? Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes, and no, I did not. Did you?”

“Yes—yes, of course. It was a fine performance.” Only the distant, pained look in Ryder’s eyes betrayed his lingering passion for the blond pianist. “Juliana Fall’s a remarkable musician, don’t you agree?”

“Music doesn’t interest me.”

Ryder gave Hendrik a thin, patrician smile, but the Dutchman took no offense. He was what he was, and long ago he’d stopped trying to change. Ryder said mildly, “Let’s get to the point, shall we? I assume you saw who I was with tonight.”

“Rachel Stein,” Hendrik said without expression.

Ryder looked straight ahead in the dark, chilly car, as if avoiding the Dutchman’s eyes could dissociate him from what he was saying. “She wants your head.”

“She deserves it. However, I’m not a masochist.”

“Neither am I.”

“Of course not. Rachel Stein wants my head, and you’ll give it to her because otherwise she’ll talk—and someone may look deeper into the possible connections between us. I shouldn’t think that’s something you or Sergeant Bloch would want.”

“Very perceptive of you, de Geer,” Ryder said bitterly. “She can do me incredible damage, and with no justification, I might add.”

Hendrik smiled, truly amused. “Ahh, yes, you’re the innocent in all this.”

Ryder made no argument, didn’t even hear the light sarcasm in de Geer’s voice. God, how he hated this! He had planned for this moment for days, since Rachel Stein had first given him the details of de Geer’s betrayal of her family and the Peperkamps, and now that it was here, he could barely concentrate. He was still seeing Juliana Fall’s eyes, dark and beautiful against the pale hair. She must have thought him a fool. “You’re such a silly ass, Sam,” his wife had said when she’d left him. Other women didn’t agree—he didn’t agree—but the sting of her words had stayed with him. His wife had been one woman he could never impress. That’s the kind you always go for, isn’t it, pal? But no, Juliana Fall wouldn’t be like that. If only Stark—damn him! What was he doing there tonight?

“But you have terms,” the Dutchman said calmly.

With almost physical force, the senator shoved from his mind the image of smug, arrogant Matthew Stark. Steelman, the men had called him, always with respect. They could count on Stark. He was reliable. Straight up. Nerveless. Ryder had wanted a nickname like Steelman, not Golden Boy. But that was all in the past. Who was the U.S. senator, and who was the has-been writer? Their meeting backstage was an unfortunate coincidence, that was all. That was all he would permit it to be.

“Yes,” he said, finally, “I have terms. You can solve my problems at the same time you solve your own.”

Ryder turned, observing the Dutchman’s ill-fitting suit, his unstyled hair and blunt, callused hands. How had such a man come to have so much power over him? But no longer, Ryder thought. At last, no more. “I know about Amsterdam. Rachel Stein told me everything when she came to me after she saw us in the car together on the six o’clock news. That was a bad piece of luck, but I warned you about meeting me in person. But perhaps things will work out for the best, hm? After Rachel and I talked, I did some investigating on my own and found out even more. You’re here tonight, de Geer, because you know you caused the deaths of twelve people and Rachel Stein would like nothing better than to see you brought to justice for what you did. You’re here because you know I know. You could disappear. I’m no fool, I know you could. But you have a good thing going with Bloch, and you’re getting old. It wouldn’t be easy to start over again, especially when there’s no need. You have only to get me what I want, and I’ll forget everything I know about you.”

Hendrik had learned not to dismiss so easily this man with the innocent eyes. “We’ve discussed this before. I’m here, am I not? Tell me what it is you want.”

“The diamond.”

The Dutchman made no sound.

“You know what I’m talking about. I know you do. The Stein woman doesn’t believe it exists or she’d never have mentioned it when she came to me to complain about you. She has no idea of my interest in the stone—but I’m convinced it does exist. What’s more, you’re going to get it for me.”

“I know of many diamonds, Senator—”

“Don’t, de Geer. Don’t waste my time.”

Hendrik regarded the young senator without emotion. “I have to be sure. This diamond’s name?”

Ryder’s eyes went cold. “The Minstrel’s Rough.”



Otis Raymond shifted back and forth on his feet as he stood on the hand-braided rug next to the big oak rolltop desk. Behind him, a fire roared in the stone fireplace, but, as always, Raymond seemed cold. A fine specimen of the U.S. Army, Bloch thought. Shit. It never ceased to amaze him that SP-4 Raymond had survived Vietnam, and as a door gunner no less. Had to be dumb luck.

“Good evening, Raymond.”

“Sergeant.”

Bloch leaned back in the swivel chair. “I just got a call from Sam. He said Stark showed up at Lincoln Center tonight. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Matt Stark? No, Sergeant. I ain’t seen him in a couple years.”

“You didn’t stop in to see him while you were in Washington?”

“No, uh uh. I was there on your time. I just did what I was supposed to do.”

“Of course. Then why was Stark in New York?”

“I don’t know. Ask him.”

“I might, Raymond. I just might.”

Otis sniffled, unable to stand still. “Anything else?”

“No, you’re dismissed.”

A short while later, Bloch received another call. “It’s done,” his man in New York said.

“An accident?” Bloch asked.

“Of course.”

“Satisfactory.” He watched the bright flames, enjoying the smell of the burning birchwood. “Very satisfactory.”




Seven


Matthew arrived in the newsroom early Monday morning, too damn early, and drank two cups of coffee even before Feldie showed up. He wasn’t doing any work. He just sat at his desk, staring at the Plexiglas partition above it where he’d hung the poster of the movie that had been based on his book, LZ. They’d kept the title. The movie had won lots of awards—so had the book—and now was available on tape for VCR; the book was required reading in college courses on the Vietnam War. He used to have some of the reviews stuck up on the partition next to the poster, but he’d pulled them down about a year ago. No reason. Just tired of looking at them, he supposed. A few months ago, Time had done a piece on whatever happened to Matthew Stark, the helicopter pilot who’d been awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross and survived two tours in the central highlands, only to return to Vietnam one more time as a freelance journalist, publishing articles with The New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly, Harper’s. When he finally came home he wrote his book and joined the Washington Post. He was the tarnished hero, the Vietnam vet people could dare to like.

Then he got sick of it all or ran out of things to say—something. He’d quit caring about what had brought on the change of heart. He’d resigned from the Post, done nothing for a while, then, still with a reputation left, showed up at the Gazette to do a tabloid’s version of investigative reporting.

He sipped some coffee and admitted he felt better. Nothing like a newsroom to help him forget a long Sunday of nightmares that had haunted him, awake and asleep. He called them nightmares, although they weren’t. They were memories.

“Asshole!”

Alice Feldon stomped over to his desk, the front page of the New York Times crushed in one hand, her glasses down on the end of her big nose. “Goddamn you,” she said. “I stick my neck out for you, I call in a few chips to get you a ticket to a sold-out concert at Lincoln Center, I trust you, you son of a bitch, and how the hell do you repay me?”

“Relax, Feldie. It was a dead end, all right? No story.”

“Bullshit.” She flung the Times at him. “There, read. A woman slipped and fell outside Lincoln Center after the concert Saturday night. Died. Her body wasn’t discovered until yesterday afternoon.”

“Great story, Feldie. I’ll get right on it.”

“I don’t need your sarcasm. The woman’s name was Rachel Stein. Mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“She was with one Senator Samuel Ryder at the concert—your old pal.”

Matthew rubbed his forehead. “Jesus Christ.”

The story started on the lower half of the front page. Rachel Stein had been a prominent Hollywood agent; she had recently retired to Palm Beach. A quote from Ryder’s office said she had become a prominent supporter of the senator’s and he was deeply grieved by her death.

“This guy Weasel—he a friend of Ryder’s, too? Is that why you were at Lincoln Center, because Ryder was there? They say Stein’s death was accidental. You have any other ideas?”

Stark let Feldie rant. The world’s largest uncut diamond, Ryder’s troubles, Weasel’s dumb urge to help him. Now this.

“Look, Stark, goddamnit, I don’t feel sorry for you. You could quit this job and still make more money on royalties and interest than I do putting in a sixty-hour week. I could fire you, you’d make out fine, which is probably the biggest reason I don’t.” She pushed her glasses up on top of her head. “People used to say you gave a damn.”

No one talked to him like that except Alice Feldon. No one else dared. Matthew liked it that he didn’t scare her. “Maybe I never did.”

“I don’t believe that.” Her voice had softened, and she let out a heavy sigh. “Was this Otis Raymond character in Vietnam with you and Ryder?”

“Weaze is a burned-out Vietnam vet. Country’s bored with them, Feldie. About all I get from him is bullshit. If there’s a story in this, you’ll get it. I promise.”

“All right, Stark. You’re a journalist. Follow up.”

Muttering that she ought to give up on the lazy shit, Alice stalked back to her desk. Matthew drank some more coffee and read the piece on Rachel Stein’s death. She could easily have slipped. He remembered how tiny she was, how wrinkled and old-looking, even if the article said she was only sixty-five. She wasn’t used to snow and ice. So maybe she slipped and maybe she didn’t—did it make any difference? He went back to the beginning and reread the piece.

And there it was. Rachel Stein had emigrated from Amsterdam in 1945, having spent the last months of the war in a Nazi concentration camp. She was a Dutch Jew.

A Dutch Jew.

And the man Ryder was supposed to have met, Hendrik de Geer, was also Dutch.

Stark looked up at the LZ poster, not seeing it. Something else was stirring around in his head, but he couldn’t pin it down. He pulled out the program he’d saved from the concert, just in case Feldie wanted proof he’d attended, just in case he felt like cutting out the picture of Juliana Fall and sticking it on his partition.




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