Bad Company (9 page)

Von Berger waved it off. “Tell me about yourself.”

“I spent my early years in Palermo, of course. Neither my mother nor my uncle wanted me in the Mafia, which was difficult, because all my extended family, my cousins, were.”

“Judging by the way you demolished a brute like Klein, they failed in their wishes.”

“I spent too much time as a boy on the Palermo streets. You learn fast there. I had a fine education, the best, but I suppose the Mafia was somehow in my blood. A kind of arrogance.” His hand came out of his pocket holding an ivory Madonna; he pressed a button and a blade flashed. “And this… I keep it always. My uncle gave it to me for my tenth birthday.” He folded it.

Von Berger said, “So what came with maturity?”

“I was sent to Yale University at seventeen, studied economics, business. I did well enough, had a flair for computers. Then I went home and joined the Italian air force, and ended up getting shot down and on the run behind Serb lines in Bosnia.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“You could say that.”

“And you want to go back to it?”

“Why not? Within three months of qualifying, I was in the Gulf War, attacking Basra. Bosnia a few years later, Kosovo. It has a special feel, life on the edge. I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment. A little action and passion wouldn’t come amiss.”

“I can understand that. Pour me another brandy.”

Marco did so, lit a cigarette and said calmly, “As I’ve said, I didn’t come to seek any advantage from you. In your position, however, I’d be wanting a DNA test.”

“And that might be a good idea,” the Baron said. “But only for one reason – to secure the line, to legitimize you. You’re quite obviously my son. I have no dispute with it; in fact, I welcome it. I only dispute this nonsense of you returning to the air force. You’ve taken the pitcher to the well far too often. Enough is enough.”

“So what do I do?”

“You’ve got a first-class business background, you’re a war hero, and it appears you’re a rather ruthless young man if someone crosses you. A street fighter.”

“What did my father do to the Ukrainians who butchered his wife and my half-brother? I come from a long line of warriors.”

“Exactly, which is why I wish you to choose to stay with me. To be my right hand.” The Baron shook his head. “Dammit, I’ll be eighty next year and to have my son beside me would be such a benison. I realize you are wealthy and…”

Marco Rossi, filled with an emotion he had only experienced with his mother, said, “No – please.” He dropped to one knee, took the Baron’s hand and kissed it. “You have no idea what this means. To be the son of a man like you.”

“But I do.” Von Berger put a hand to Marco’s head. “Because I am the father of a man like you.”

And Marco took to his new position in life like a duck to water. From then on, wherever the Baron went, so did he. It became common knowledge that he was, in fact, von Berger’s son.

And in intimate moments, the Baron told him everything. About the Führer Bunker and the last interview with Hitler and the source of his enormous wealth; he even told him of the Hitler diary and showed him where he kept it, the secret compartment at the back of the mausoleum with the eternal flame burning in an open bowl. Yet he never let him read it – the secret of Hitler’s overtures to Roosevelt to end the Second World War was von Berger’s alone.

He explained the special and secret relationship with Rashid Investments, how Kate Rashid had saved his life, his blood bond with her. All this, Marco took on board and understood. And then came that dreadful morning in his suite at the Grand Hotel in Berlin, sitting down to breakfast, when Marco joined him and handed him the early copy of the London
Times.

“I think you’d better read this.”

It was a front-page account of Kate Rashid’s final tragic flight from Dauncey Place. Max von Berger had seldom felt such anguish. He slammed a hand on the table.

“But what went wrong, for God’s sake? She was a fine pilot.”

“No one knows. Engine failure, probably. I did some NATO training there with the RAF. I know that coast. Sussex, the marshes, the mudflats, then that damned English weather. From the report, it was a dawn flight, with mist and rain, and according to air traffic control, her plane was on the screen for a short while, then vanished. As you can see, they’ve begun searching off the coast.” Marco went to the bar, poured a brandy and brought it to him. “Drink it down.”

The Baron did as he was told. “I owed her so much. My very life.”

Marco felt strangely detached, in a way almost jealous. He lit two cigarettes and passed one to his father. “She must have gone down close in. That means reasonably shallow water. They’ll find her, and this cousin you told me about, Rupert Dauncey.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” He held out his glass. “I’d better have another.”

Marco went and got it and brought it back. “What happens now?”

Von Berger had not even thought of it until now. “The legal agreements with Paul Rashid passed to Kate, and now, on her death, they will come into force for me. I will assume control of the Rashid empire.” He took a deep breath, stunned. He had never actually considered it, not with four Rashids so vital and healthy. “We must alert our people in Geneva, here in Berlin, London. Everything must be put into motion.”

“They’ve still got to find her body. That will take time. Then there needs to be a pathologist’s report, a coroner’s inquest.”

The old man, strangely tranquil, said, “Yes, of course, but we must begin now. There will be no need for secrecy any longer. I’ll speak to the chief executives of Rashid in New York and London, so they know what to expect. They’ll come to heel. They will have no option.”

“And me? What do you want me to do?”

“Ah, for you I have a special task. You will take over all of the security operations for Rashid worldwide. There was a lot going on there, particularly in Arabia and Hazar, and I want to know what it was. How did the three Rashid brothers come to die, and why, and now Kate? It’s a remarkable coincidence.”

“Whatever you say.”

“You’re a genius with a computer, Marco, and you’ll be able to access everything they have. You’ll have the authority.”

“London first?”

“I suppose so. I’ll speak to the Rashid people there, then New York. By that time, they’ll have either found her or declared her dead.”

“Can I do anything for you?”

“Arrange for the Gulfstream to London Northolt.”

“I’ll get on it.”

He went out, and Max von Berger sat there, thinking. Life, he thought, was always so unexpected, one different journey after another, and this one, he told himself with a heavy heart, was to end in only one place. In the churchyard of the village of Dauncey.

THE CHURCH DOOR opened and the cortege appeared, the Baron and Marco close behind. The procession started through the graveyard to the family mausoleum.

“Come on,” Ferguson said, “I want to see this.”

The coffin was on a central dais and people walked around it slowly, paying their respects. The lid was half-open, the embalmed body of Kate Rashid revealed. The Baron reached it and paused, then he took something from his pocket, leaned forward and placed it on her breast. He moved forward, paused to glance at Ferguson, then continued.

Dillon whispered, “What in the hell was that about?”

They took their turn by the coffin, gazing down at Kate Rashid’s calm dead face, remarkably lifelike, thanks to the embalmer’s art. Dillon felt no emotion, or told himself he didn’t. What the Baron had left was a medal, scarlet and black, the German cross. They moved on.

“How interesting,” Ferguson observed. “He’s awarded her his Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords. There’s far more here than even we know about.”

Everyone started to turn away through the rain. Dillon said, “Where is this leading, Charles?”

“To the Dauncey Arms, Dillon. I understand there will be a champagne buffet there.”

“And Baron Max von Berger?” Blake asked.

“Well, let’s go and see,” Ferguson told him and led the way.

The Dauncey Arms was already filling up, as people filtered into the saloon bar. Like everything else in the village, it was ancient: black beams on the ceiling, a log fire burning in the old granite fireplace. There were tables in oak booths. Blake managed to grab one and eased in with Ferguson. Dillon moved to the bar, where Betty Mooney, the publican, presided.

She frowned. “I didn’t know you’d be coming, Mr. Dillon. You’re not welcome here.”

“I’m not welcome anywhere, Betty.” Dillon took a glass of champagne from the row on the bar, swallowed it down, took three more and went back to the booth. “There you go.” He gave Ferguson and Blake a glass each and toasted them.

Blake said, “Even you don’t know this, General, but not more than twenty-four hours ago, the Baron sought and received a meeting in the Oval Office with the President. I was there. He told him that he was now in control of Rashid Investments, and, most importantly, Rashid Oil. A third of all Middle East oil production. He wanted concessions – and the President pointed out that he wasn’t comfortable with that.”

“Why?” Dillon said.

“Because Berger has been dealing with Iraq on arms deals. We can’t stop the oil production – the world market needs it – but the President made it clear that he was not welcome.”

“How sad,” Ferguson said. “He’s seeing the Prime Minister tomorrow morning.”

“And what will happen there?” Dillon asked.

“The same answer, I expect.”

“Has the PM spoken to you?”

“Briefly, on the phone. He’s asked me to attend the meeting.” He shrugged. “It’s a foregone conclusion.”

It was at that moment that the Baron and Marco Rossi entered the bar. The Baron glanced around, saw them and came across. His voice was deep, quite pleasant, with only a hint of a German accent.

“Ah, Mr. Johnson. Nice to see you again.”

Blake didn’t stand. “Baron.”

“General Ferguson.” Von Berger nodded. “We haven’t met.”

“We will tomorrow at Downing Street.”

“Really?” Von Berger smiled. “I look forward to it. Your reputation precedes you.”

“It usually does.”

The Baron turned to Dillon. “And you must be the great Sean Dillon – a remarkable man.”

“Jesus, Baron,” Dillon said. “And what would you be after?”

“Your head, of course. Kate Rashid was my dear friend. She even saved my life once. So – I’ll settle for your head.”

Dillon replied in German. “You can always try.”

There was a frozen moment, and Ferguson said, “I really wouldn’t bother with Downing Street tomorrow if I were you, Baron.”

“I always travel hopefully, General. Good day to you, gentlemen.” Rossi eyed Dillon, his face hard, watchful.

“Go on, son, our day will come.” Rossi smiled as if in satisfaction, turned and followed the Baron out.

Ferguson said, “So what do you think?”

“Kate Rashid was a dear friend, even saved his life, and all he wants is my head?” Dillon shrugged. “We’ve got trouble here, Charles, big trouble.”

“I’m afraid you’re right.” He turned to Blake. “What about you?”

“The President has asked the Prime Minister to allow me to attend your meeting, too. After that, I’ll return to Washington.”

“Excellent. We might as well get back to London.” Ferguson turned to Dillon. “You’ve got your final debriefing this evening.”

“Debriefing, my arse,” Dillon said, and smiled at Blake. “He’s got me into psychoanalysis now after my last little run-in with friend Rashid. Obviously has me down as some kind of psychotic.”

There was an edge to him, which Blake sensed. “Routine, Sean, routine. You went through a lot, had to kill more than once.”

“Really?” Dillon said. “I thought I killed everybody. Still – back to London and the Mother Superior.”

He started for the door. Blake said, “Mother Superior?”

“One of Dillon’s bad jokes. The person he’s seeing is a friend of mine, a lady called Haden-Taylor. She’s not only a psychiatrist, but a professor and an ordained priest of the Church of England. She operates out of Harley Street – or St. Paul’s Church, around the corner, if you can’t afford to pay.”

“I see. She’s like that, is she?”

“Very much so.”

“Ah well,” Blake said as he followed him out. “It takes all sorts, I suppose.”

In the rear of the Rolls-Royce, the Baron said to Rossi, “It’s nice to put a face to Ferguson and Dillon. Computer printouts lack charm.”

“A hard one, the Irishman,” Rossi said. “What I’ve already seen on the Rashid computer is bad. There’s no doubt he killed all three Rashid brothers.”

“Yes, well, my impression is they asked for it.” The Baron shook his head. “That attempt on Cazalet’s life on Nantucket was ill-advised. You only do a thing like that if you’re certain you can succeed. Failure only brings disaster.”

“The Irish mercenaries were well recommended,” Rossi said.

“And well taken care of by Dillon and company.” Max von Berger shook his head. “But we still don’t know for absolute certainty if they were responsible for Kate’s death. I want you to keep on scouring those security files at Rashid Investments for any kind of clue. There must be something there.”

“Don’t worry, I will. I have come across something, actually. The names of two guys who worked directly for Rashid Security under Rupert Dauncey’s orders. They were ex-SAS, named Newton and Cook. They were definitely involved in watching Dillon.”

“Do you know where they are now?”

“Working for a third-rate security firm. I’m meeting them later this afternoon.”

The Baron frowned. “Be careful, Marco. Maybe you should take some muscle.”