Cut and Run (21 page)

U.S
. Senator Samuel Ryder, Jr., adopted a carefully constructed expression of pensiveness and control as he looked across his walnut desk to the wine-colored leather chair where Hendrik de Geer sat, rumpled, ashen-faced, spent, tired old man, reeking of sweat and gin. Ryder felt no sympathy. His aides had volunteered to call security—had pleaded with him to let them call—but the senator had refused. He'd insisted de Geer be ushered into his office, into the quiet, formal surroundings of a United States senator.

The room was unchanged from the days when it had been occupied by Samuel Ryder, Sr., the longtime senior senator from Florida. When elected, Sam had brought out all the furnishings that had been in storage—the desk, the carpets, the chairs, the mementos. Everything. There was only one addition: a portrait. It had been painted shortly before the senior Ryder's death, an ominous picture of a man remembered for his soft baby blue eyes and deadly incisiveness, and it hung above the desk, behind his son, where Sam, Jr., wouldn't have to look at it all the time.

“Are you absolutely positive that Johannes Peperkamp didn't have the stone?” Ryder asked, concealing the panic brought on by the Dutchman's succinct, unemotional testimony about the events over the past few days in Amsterdam. “He
must
have!”

“That's what I thought as well,” the Dutchman replied calmly.

Did you kill him?
Ryder's mind burned with the question, but he didn't ask it, instead convincing himself that the operational details of de Geer's activities weren't his concern. He licked his lips, rubbing one finger into the polished walnut of the edge of his desk. He refused to meet the Dutchman's impassive, penetrating gaze, as if that would dissociate him even more from the events he'd put into motion.

“Then who has it?” Ryder asked.

“No one. The Minstrel is lost—if it ever existed.”

Ryder slapped his slate blotter. “It has to exist, and it can't be lost!”

“Why, because you don't wish it?”

“Dammit, man, do you know what this means?”

The Dutchman leaned back deeper into the chair, looking as if he might fall asleep—or fall down dead—at any moment. He had disengaged himself. “It means you must devise another plan to get Bloch his money,” he said. “You're a clever man, Senator Ryder. You'll think of something. With Rachel Stein's death, you no longer have any hold over me. Even if I did know where to locate the Minstrel, I would no longer feel compelled to get it for you. If I'd known about her death before I left for Antwerp, I'd never have gone.”

“I don't believe she was ever your sole motive for going along with me. It was a factor, to be sure, but the Peperkamps were your friends—”

“That was many, many years ago. Now, I'm afraid, they would all be delighted to hear of my death. You know what Rachel Stein said about me. It's all true.”

“Did you kill her?” Ryder asked suddenly in a low, hoarse voice, regretting his words almost immediately. He couldn't believe he was articulating such an accusation! Why couldn't he be as cool and unperturbable as de Geer—as Matthew Stark had always been? Steelman. The chopper pilot the men all wanted to ride with. His skill, his uncompromising sense of duty, his steady nerves, his reliability were all highly regarded by the men he transported, dusted off, and aided in combat Ryder himself had never commanded such respect. It was something he'd learned to live with.

The Dutchman withdrew a cigar and a small pocketknife, shaking his head in feigned despair. “The man you must think I am, to kill an old woman, to throw her down on the ice.” He sighed, deftly cutting off the end of the cigar, pocketing the knife, and putting the cigar in his mouth. “I was sitting in your car when Rachel died. I had no interest in killing Rachel Stein. I've done enough to her.”

Ryder rubbed his forehead with all eight fingers, his thumbs planted firmly under his cheekbones as if holding his head together. “Then it must have been an accident after all.”

Hendrik de Geer laughed a cold, unpleasant laugh, the unlit cigar sticking on his lip. “You're a fool, Senator Ryder—a blind, dangerous fool. You don't believe that any more than I do. You told Sergeant Bloch about Rachel, didn't you? He can arrange to have old women pushed down as easily as he can blackmail a United States senator.”

“He's not blackmailing me,” Ryder said sharply. “I'm helping him establish himself as a self-sustaining force for freedom—”

“Oh, spare me, Senator. I've been in this world a long, long time. You need not make your excuses to me. How much did you tell Bloch?”

Ryder didn't answer at once. He folded his hands on his blotter and sat very still controlling his anger and distaste for the Dutchman. At the moment, it was more important to think clearly. He had to debate with himself what to tell Hendrik de Geer and what to handle himself. How would the Dutchman react to a full account of Ryder's conversations with Bloch?

But de Geer was impatient—and, as always, entirely too perceptive. “You told him everything, didn't you?”

“I didn't—”

“Don't lie to me!”
The Dutchman didn't raise his voice, but the intensity of his words deepened the piercing blue of his eyes and brought him forward in his chair, the unflappable impassiveness shattered. “You told Bloch what you know about the Minstrel.”

“I had to—don't you see? Look, de Geer, you know Bloch. He wants the diamond. You must get it for him, don't you understand? If you don't…for God's sake, man, if you don't he'll go after it himself. Do you want that to happen?”

“That's not my problem,” the Dutchman said, rising, his disgust underlining his words.

Ryder fought the urge to jump up and plead his case, and he felt the familiar gnawing of indecision, the aching emptiness of simply not knowing what to do. “I can't control Bloch—he'll go to the Peperkamp women, he'll try each one until he's positive none has the diamond or until he gets it. Or he'll expect me to do this, despite my valid unwillingness to be involved on that end. You can't let this happen! De Geer—for God's sake, help me!”

Hendrik de Geer lit his cigar with a match, puffed, shook out the match, and dropped it on the senator's desk, where its smoking melted through layers of wax. The room filled with the smoke of the cigar. Without pleasure, the Dutchman looked at Ryder and smiled. “I'll help myself.”

 

Alice Feldon wasn't relieved to see Matthew Stark wander into the
Gazette
newsroom. She was standing at her desk as usual, glasses on top of her head, her nails painted something called African Violet. Stark couldn't have spent more than a few hours in Antwerp. She'd just come from fighting the money boys upstairs about his bebopping around, spending the paper's money with no discernible progress on
any
kind of story, large, medium, or small.

“You're the ones who've been telling me to give the man a chance,” she'd said. So go suck an egg, she'd felt like adding.

Yes, they'd replied, but did she know how much it cost to fly to Belgium?

Stark moved past her desk, his black leather jacket unzipped. Underneath was a black denim shirt and, for a change, heavy charcoal cords. And those damn boots, of course. Alice tried to imagine him in tassel loafers and couldn't. The man was informal to the point of insolence. But she knew he gave such matters little or no thought. People could take him or leave him. He didn't give a damn which.

“I thought you were in Antwerp,” she said.

“I was.”

“And?”

The black-brown eyes were leveled at her. “And now I'm back.”

“Jackass,” she said, unintimidated. “I want a progress report on my desk in an hour. You can't be trusted, Stark.”

“Zeigler in?”

“Forget it. He's not doing any more errands for you. I haven't got the staff to waste on a story that's going nowhere fast. You prove you're nursing something important, I'll give you all the help you need. Get me some facts, dammit. Until then, you're on your own.”

“Never mind,” Stark said, as if he didn't hear her. He was looking around the big, open newsroom. “I see him. Love your nails, Feldie. Make you look like a real dragon lady.”

She shoved her chair in under her desk, just missing her fingers. “Stark, goddamn you, I'm serious!”

He gave her one of his slow, disarming grins. “You're always serious, Feldie. Loosen up.”

“You don't come up with a story this time, you lazy ass is out of here. I mean it, goddamnit.”

“That's not much of a threat,” he said.

He sauntered over to the massive copy machine, where Aaron Ziegler was feeding in paper and looking bored out of his mind. Rookie reporter or not, he had on a dark suit, rep tie, white shirt, and shiny Weejuns. Alice thought he had to have a trust fund or something. God only knew he couldn't afford clothes like that on what the
Gazette
paid him. Dread and excitement came into his face when he saw Stark, but five minutes with Alice earlier that day had reminded him which side his bread was buttered on, so to speak. He glanced up at her.

She nodded. Oh, why the hell not? Somebody else could feed the copy machine.

 

In her sturdy shoes and worn coat, with her single carryon bag held firmly under her arm, Aunt Willie looked a bit like a bag lady after they'd cleared customs at Kennedy Airport. “Where do we get the bus?” she asked.

“We can take a cab,” Juliana said, leading the way.

“A cab? Why, isn't there a bus?”

“A cab's easier. Come on.”

Wilhelmina made no comment, but Juliana could feel her aunt's disapproval. Americans were extravagant and wasteful. Why should her niece spend the money on a taxi when she could use public transportation? Material success meant nothing to Aunt Willie, and neither did the inconvenience of taking a bus or a train. Juliana wondered what her aunt would have to say about the expensive sportscar she had sitting in a garage. She seldom used it, except to escape to Vermont on occasion.

Vermont. Shuji. Now that her uncle was dead, the dilemmas she'd faced only a few days ago seemed trivial.

“When I'm gone,” Uncle Johannes said in his gentle way, “the Minstrel is yours to do with as you must. No one can tell you what is right, what is wrong. That is for you to decide. Do you understand, Juliana?”

She hadn't. The largest uncut diamond in the world, the mystery surrounding it, the legend, the myth, the tradition. It was all so much mumbo jumbo to her. Her throat tightened as she remembered the quiet, intelligent man with the soft, proud look in his eyes as he'd come backstage seven years ago in Delftshaven. She'd felt an instant bond with him—as if she could do anything, be anything, and he still would be there for her. You're the last of the Peperkamps, he'd told her. Until then, she had never thought about it. The Peperkamps had been strangers to her.

She'd stuck the Minstrel's Rough away and tried to forget about it. And, as he'd requested, she'd never mentioned it to her mother or her aunt.

Now she wasn't sure what to do. Over and over again on the flight to New York, she'd considered telling Aunt Willie she had it, asking her advice. But she'd resisted. Were people dying because of the Minstrel? Would telling Aunt Willie about it endanger her?

Am I in danger?

Although this was her first trip to the United States, Wilhelmina seemed unimpressed and asked no questions about the sights as they drove into Manhattan. Juliana didn't bother to point out any landmarks.

Wilhelmina was leaning back against the torn seat, frowning thoughtfully. “Do you think your reporter has gone back to Washington?”

“I don't know. It's possible, I suppose. He might try Mother.”

“He'll get nothing out of her,” Wilhelmina said with assurance.

“I suspect you're right; I certainly never have.”

“Well, we'll just have to locate him and find out what he's up to. You can do that, Juliana. I'll see to Catharina.”

“Me? Aunt Willie, Matthew Stark isn't going to stand for me hanging around.”

“So?”

“So I'm not about to follow him around like a puppy dog with my tail wagging!”

“Achh, so much pride. I don't understand this about puppy dogs and tails.”

“Never mind. I just think you and I could accomplish more if we stay together.”

“You do, do you? And just what information do we have that we can act upon?”

“You and Mother know who Hendrik de Geer is. You could tell me.”

Aunt Willie snorted in disgust. “And what would that accomplish? Would it tell us where he is? No, it would not. Would it tell us what this Senator Ryder is up to? No, it would not. Would it tell us if Rachel's and Johannes's deaths were acts of God? No, it would not. Would it—?”