Cut and Run (23 page)

“I want you to know how sorry I am about Uncle Johannes,” she said. “I know you didn't see much of him in recent years, but I also know that didn't make any difference to how you felt about him. In your own way, you're a close family. I think I see that now.”

Catharina caught her lower lip and released Juliana's hand so she could brush away her tears. “What are you going to do?”

“I don't know,” Juliana said truthfully.

“Aren't you working on the Chopin concerto?”

Juliana smiled, rising, and gave her mother a quick hug. “You're just as impossible as Aunt Willie, just not in the same way. But I do love you, Mum.”

“And I love you, too,” she whispered. Then she sat up straight, inhaling, determined. “Send Aunt Willie in here.”

 

“Well, Steelman.”

Matthew recognized the voice instantly and sank back against his chair. “Bloch.”

“You don't take to warnings, do you?”

“You tell me.”

“My man saw you in Antwerp.”

Dammit, Stark thought, how stupid could he have been? He'd never even considered that Bloch would have someone watching Johannes Peperkamp's shop, his house.

And Juliana?

Dammit to hell. If Bloch had had a man at the Peperkamp house, he'd seen her and the old aunt. How much did the bastard know?

Bloch went on, pleased with himself, “You were picked up at the old man's house not long after Juliana Fall and Wilhelmina Peperkamp got there. They're a real Mutt and Jeff, aren't they? I hear Fall's quite the looker. What do you think?”

“I think I should have blown your fucking ass to bit when I had the chance.”

“That's what you get for playing by the rules. But that's history. I'm concerned with right now. Want me to give you a rundown of what I know?”

“No.”

“I know you were at Lincoln Center the same night as Ryder and the Stein woman, and I know you've been to New York to see Juliana Fall and to Antwerp looking for her uncle. And you know why you've been to those places,
sir?
Because your old buddy Specialist Otis Raymond has been snitching to his hero Matthew Stark.”

“Let me talk to Weasel,” Stark said stonily.

“He's unavailable.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I trusted him, you know, tried to give him a hand. But that's the way it goes sometimes.”

Stark felt everything inside him turn cold. “If you touch Otis, I'm coming after you, Bloch. I don't care where the hell you're hiding, I'll find you.”

“Stay out of this,” Bloch said, adding with heavy sarcasm, “Steelman.”

“Bloch—”

The sergeant hung up.

Hey, Steelman, we just landed our asses in some serious shit…sir.

That was Otis Raymond. Matthew raked one hand through his hair and tried to regain his sense of balance, of distance. The Weaze had never played by the book or worried about making it out of Vietnam. There was no future for him, not much past, just the present. He'd treated his M-60, standard equipment for a door gunner, with more care than most of the people he knew. But he'd cried like a two-year-old when a low ceiling prevented them from pulling out a stranded platoon and they'd had to go in later, too late, for the casualties. He'd laughed hysterically when he shoved grunts out of the chopper eight or ten feet above the ground, yelling, “Playtime, fellas!” He'd been proud of his medals, of the lives he'd saved; he never said much about the lives he'd taken. Just that one time.

You just do what you gotta do. I figure, my time's up, it's up, and they must figure the same. You know? Shit, I guess you don't. I'm the one does the shooting, huh?

He was right, at least for a time. Toward the end of his first tour, Stark had switched from slicks to gunships, AH-1G Cobras. Snakes, they were nicknamed. He'd wanted a chance to shoot back for a change. It hadn't made him feel any better. By then, nothing did. The snakes didn't need door gunners, and he and Otis Raymond were finally split up. It didn't last. He'd transferred to light observation helicopters, the scouts, and once more Weasel was his gunner. Crazy, stupid, ugly, brave, cocky SP-4 Otis Raymond. He figured one day someone was going to make a movie out of him. The best damn gunner in Vietnam, he'd said of himself more than once. He might have been right. He'd lived, hadn't he? And somebody had made that movie. But Otis had never read or seen
LZ,
and Matthew had never gotten around to telling his old buddy that the nutty, heroic loner of a door gunner in both the book and the movie was modeled after SP-4 Otis Raymond.

Matthew felt empty and so goddamn alone.

C
atharina's Bake Shop was warm and crowded, and Wilhelmina had enjoyed just sitting quietly for a moment, experiencing her sister's life. It seemed a satisfactory one, but she wished Johannes were there. They could have tea and cookies and get to know each other again. But that was not to be.

Juliana emerged from the kitchen looking shaken, but she managed a quick smile at her aunt. “Your turn. I've got to go out, but here's the key to my apartment. I'll meet you back there.”

“Where are you going?”

“SoHo. I won't be gone long.”

“And what of our man in the trench coat?”

“He won't follow me, Aunt Willie.” This time her smile was genuine, lighting up her dark eyes. “You can count on that.”

Wilhelmina wasn't so certain and found Juliana's confidence unsettling, but she made no argument. If the man outside meant them harm, he would have done something by now or at least been less obvious. He seemed to be keeping an eye on them. But why? On whose orders?

Sighing, she nodded. “Just be careful.” And she too managed a smile. “Don't leave me having to explain to your mother!”

Juliana laughed and went to the counter to order something to eat, and Wilhelmina retreated to the back, where she found her sister seated at a small table in the storeroom. Even dressed as she was in simple pants and a pullover, with her softly graying hair piled on top of her head, Catharina looked elegant. In the same outfit, Wilhelmina thought, I would look dumpy. It was one of the many differences between them.

She'd fixed a pot of tea and had a plate of
speculaas
and bread and cheese in front of her, untouched. “Willie,” she said, her voice cracking, and she went on in Dutch, “I hate to say it, but I'm so glad you're here. I mean…”

Wilhelmina laughed, taking no offense. “I know what you mean, Catharina.”

“Johannes…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes once more filling with tears.

“Yes. We'll miss him, won't we?”

“I'd begun to think he'd never die. Willie, what's happened to us? I remember when I was a little girl I could never imagine being away from my family. I wanted to live with Mother and Father forever—and you and Johannes. I thought you'd always be close by.”

“You were the one who left,” Wilhelmina pointed out, but without condemnation; it was a fact. She filled two simple white mugs with tea.

“I know, but I never thought we'd drift so far apart. I—”

Catharina cut herself off and began pulling distractedly at her hair, upsetting several pins, so that part of a braid came loose. Wilhelmina remembered how blond her little sister's hair had been as a girl, how she used to braid it for her so carefully and tenderly, not wanting to pull. Catharina's hands trembled, but she shoved them quickly into her lap.

“You're so strong, Willie,” she went on, trying to smile. “I—I can't lie to myself, you know. I can't pretend I'm not relieved you're here. All these years…” She inhaled deeply. “And I still depend on you.”

“There's nothing wrong with that, Catharina.”

“But who do you depend on?”

“Myself. But that's only because that's all I have.”

“What about me?”

Wilhelmina sighed, feeling awkward; she didn't like to discuss these things. “You're my sister. It's enough that you don't hate me.”

Catharina held back a sob and shook her head, as if she couldn't believe her sister's words. “Oh, Willie, how could I ever hate you?”

“Sometimes, Catharina,” she replied quietly, “I wonder how you could ever not. But enough of this nonsense. We must talk, don't you agree?”

Quickly and succinctly, in Dutch, they filled each other in on the events of the past few days, but Wilhelmina found herself facing more questions than answers.

“So Hendrik hasn't changed,” she said at length. “He's out for himself and always will be. After all this time, he's finally going after the Minstrel.”

Catharina nodded, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “But Willie, is it possible Johannes went with Hendrik voluntarily?”

“No.” Wilhelmina put a small chunk of cheese on a slice of the dark bread; it was just what she needed after the exhausting trip. “Johannes would never give Hendrik the Minstrel. Hendrik had to have coerced him somehow—he had to have some kind of leverage. Us, I would think. Hendrik would know Johannes would rather die than to give him, of all people, the Minstrel. So threatening Johannes with his own death would do no good. Even threatening him with my death alone wouldn't make Johannes go for the Minstrel; he would know better than to engage in any ridiculous protective sentiments toward me. Hendrik knows this.”

“Johannes cared about you.”

Wilhelmina waved a hand impatiently. “I know that, but he cared for me in a different way than he cared for you. Catharina, you've always been the favorite—Mother's, Father's, Johannes's, Hendrik's, mine. And Johannes may not know Juliana very well, but she's your daughter and she's all that represents the future of the Peperkamps. If he were threatened not with his own life, not with mine, but with the lives of you and Juliana, he would tell Hendrik anything.
Do
anything. Next to all of us, the Minstrel's Rough and four hundred years of tradition mean nothing.”

“But you said yourself Hendrik wouldn't hurt me!”

“Of course he wouldn't.” With a satisfied sigh, Wilhelmina swallowed the last of the bread and cheese. She added sugar to her tea and took a sip. “But the more I think about it, the less inclined I am to believe Hendrik is acting alone. Perhaps someone is threatening him.

“Who? Not Senator Ryder?”

“Who knows? It's all very complicated, I'm sure.”

Catharina shuddered. “Willie, please, don't tell me this.”

“What do you want to do, pretend nothing has happened?”

“I want to leave well enough alone.”

Wilhelmina studied her sister for a moment. “And do you believe we can, Catharina?”

She waited for an answer while her younger sister sat rigidly in the chair, her eyes glazed and unfocused. She hadn't touched any of the food or her tea. Wilhelmina dunked a spice cookie and ate it in two bites.

“Of course you're right,” Catharina said tightly, more hair falling out of its pins, and she added almost inaudibly, “We can't.”

“I wish that we could. Believe me, I do. Have you been followed?”

Catharina's round soft eyes grew even larger as she took in her sister's words. “You, too?”

“Yes—and Juliana.”

“Juliana!” Catharina jumped up, her face ghastly white. “No, Willie. She can't be involved!”

“Why, because you don't wish her to be?”

“That's cruel.”

“We must look at the facts and not let our judgment be influenced by wishful thinking.”

“Juliana has no place in this,” Catharina said sternly, returning to her chair.

“We might not have that choice.”

“She's
my
daughter, Willie.”

“Yes, and she's also an adult. She must make her own decisions and deal with their consequences. Catharina, she's thirty years old.”

Catharina broke a cookie in half, then into quarters, then into crumbs. “You don't have a daughter, how could you understand?”

“Achh, I understand more than you think. Because of who she is—her career in music, her growing up here with all this wealth—Juliana knows little of the world. You can't stop her from finding out what it is.”

“You think I've spoiled her.”

“Life has spoiled her. She's been very lucky, Catharina, to have you and Adrian, to have so much.” Wilhelmina smiled, trying to take the edge off her words. “Except for not teaching her Dutch and, perhaps, being so closemouthed about the past, you haven't done anything I wouldn't have done in your position. You don't want what we suffered in Amsterdam to touch her. I understand that. We didn't want the war to touch you, but it did. That wasn't our fault or yours. It was just something that happened.”

“Willie—”

“Catharina, talk to her.”

“I don't think I can.” She brushed the cookie crumbs off her trembling fingers. “Willie, I don't want to lose her.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“I believe I do. More than thirty years ago I watched a ship sail with my only sister aboard. She'd married an American, the man she loved, and I was happy because she was so happy. But I'd lost her. There was no going back, no making up for what was done. Never in my life have I felt so alone as at that moment.” She looked into her sister's soft green eyes. “You see, I do understand how you feel.”

Catharina looked stricken. “You never told me you didn't want me to go. Willie—”

“I did want you to go. You deserved your life with Adrian.”

“But if you'd told me you cared…”

“What? It would have changed anything? Never mind, Catharina, you know I despise these emotional discussions. Let us consider our options, shall we? It seems to me the best thing for us to do now is locate the Minstrel—if for no other reason than to keep Hendrik from getting it.” She looked at her sister and asked matter-of-factly, “Do you have it?”

“No, of course not!” Catharina was indignant. “I'd have thrown it into the ocean, you know that—and so did Johannes. I hate that stone. If you ask me, it died with Johannes. There's no one to carry on the tradition.”

“What?” Wilhelmina asked sharply, suddenly acutely alert. “Catharina, what did you say? There's no one to carry on the tradition?”

Catharina was frightened by her sister's wild look. “That's right, there isn't. Why wouldn't Johannes just turn the Minstrel over to someone else in the business and let another diamond family take over as caretaker? Just because the Peperkamps have had it for so long doesn't mean—Willie?”

Wilhelmina was shaking her head, more pale and shaky than she'd been in a long, long time—since she'd heard the boots of the
Gestapo
Green Police outside her window. She said woodenly, “Another family wouldn't be the Peperkamps.”

“Well, of course not, but…” Catharina grabbed her chest and gulped for air as she realized what her sister was getting at. “Juliana—
no!
She can't have it! She'd have told me!”

“Would she?”

“Yes!”

Catharina quickly cleaned up the table, her hands shaking violently, knocking a cup to the floor. It broke, but she paid no attention, gathering up the tray and fleeing from the little storeroom into the kitchen. She threw everything into the giant sink and began sobbing uncontrollably, shutting out what was happening, shutting out the truth.

Her daughter had the Minstrel's Rough. Catharina knew it.

“I'm staying with Juliana,” Wilhelmina said quietly behind her. “I'll look in her apartment for the stone and let you know what I find. Johannes must have given it to her during one of the few times he saw her—perhaps even in Delftshaven, when we were all together. And right under our noses, too. He wouldn't have told you because you wouldn't have approved and because I would have felt it my obligation to tell you.”

“Why?” she asked hoarsely.

“Because you're her mother.”

Catharina said nothing, not looking around as her sister left.

For seven years Juliana could have had the Minstrel. Seven
years!
And without ever once hinting to her own mother, confiding in her! What else did Juliana know? What had Johannes told her that she'd been waiting to hear from her mother all this time?

“Juliana, Juliana,” she whispered, “why don't you talk to me?”

But she knew. Because you don't let her. She protects you, too, like everyone else does.

 

A brisk wind had kicked up. Juliana pulled her glittery shawl more tightly about her and headed around the corner to the Club Aquarian, running hard into a wind tunnel. She'd turned into J.J. Pepper in the bakeshop restroom. The giant shawl had disguised the mohair coat, and she'd tucked her blond hair under a black, rhinestone-studded turban. Her red vinyl boots, gobs of makeup, two handfuls of rhinestones around her neck and on her wrists and the black twenties shift she'd worn under the coat, guessing she wouldn't have to take it off for her mother, had completed her bit of subterfuge.

She'd left the man in the Burberry coat making a halfhearted attempt to pretend to be interested in a gallery window as he smoked a cigarette. Halfway to the club, she'd realized that now Aunt Willie would have to deal with him alone and had felt a passing guilt. But her stalwart old aunt had outwitted Nazi occupiers for five years; she could handle someone following her on the streets of New York.