Timewatch
Authors: Linda Grant
Hay House Titles of Related Interest
YOU CAN HEAL YOUR LIFE, the movie,
starring Louise Hay & Friends
(available as a 1-DVD program and an expanded 2-DVD set)
Watch the trailer at:
www.LouiseHayMovie.com
THE SHIFT, the movie,
starring Dr. Wayne W. Dyer
(available as a 1-DVD program and an expanded 2-DVD set)
Watch the trailer at:
www.DyerMovie.com
THE DALAI LAMA'S CAT,
by David Michie
THE LAST LAUGH,
by Arjuna Ardagh
LINDEN'S LAST LIFE: The Point of No Return Is Just the Beginning,
by Alan Cohen
THE MAN WHO RISKED IT ALL,
by Laurent Gounelle
PUSHING UPWARD,
by Andrea Adler
All of the above are available at your local
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Hay House UK:
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Hay House India:
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Copyright © 2014 by Linda Grant
Published and distributed in the United States by:
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®
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Published and distributed in Australia by:
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Cover design:
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Interior design:
Tricia Breidenthal
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public or private useâother than for “fair use” as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviewsâwithout prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or deceased, is strictly coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Grant, Linda.
 Â
Timewatch / Linda Grant. -- First edition.
        pages ; cm
 Â
ISBN 978-1-4019-4323-3 (softcover)
1. Families--Fiction. 2. Time travel--Fiction. I. Title.
 Â
PR6057.R316T56 2014
  823'.914--dc23
2014028832
Tradepaper ISBN:
978-1-4019-4323-3
10Â Â 9Â Â 8Â Â 7Â Â 6Â Â 5Â Â 4Â Â 3Â Â 2Â Â 1
1st edition, December 2014
Printed in the United States of America
To my father, Lawrence B. Grant. Some of my earliest and fondest memories were of my father reading to me the Uncle Wiggily stories about the adventures of a certain gentleman rabbit.
And to my aunt, Aline Grant, and my “honorary aunt,” Dorothy B. Hughes, who fostered my love of reading by sending me books on my birthdays and at Christmas.
Table of Contents
| Max Hauptman | Brazil, June 17, 1992 |
Swathed in a blanket against the chill of the early morning air, Max Hauptman sat on his veranda in an ornate mahogany chair carved by some long-dead Portuguese. On a table beside him stood a scarcely touched plate of
caldeirada,
his favorite fish stew, and an almost empty cup of
cafezinho.
A brightly feathered
papagaio
(a birthday gift from Carlo) moped on its perch in a brass birdcage.
Death would claim him very soon, the old man knew, but he felt no fear, only a kind of impatience to get it over with and move on to the next stage. In preparation for the great event, his senses were beginning to shut down. The triumphal dawn chorus of the birds that had awakened him for years was only a faint squawk now, and even with his new hearing aid he could barely decipher what people were saying. The rows of coffee trees digging their roots into the red soil of the hillsides, the outbuildings containing the equipment to work the
fazenda,
and the stable housing his purebred horses were little more than a blur. But sharp and terrible still was the inner vision, which had revealed to him a new way of accomplishing his destiny.
He had been fortunate. Like so many others who had lost everything during World War II, he had fled to Brazil. Believing that his plans would be expedited if he belonged to the
parentela
or extended family of one of the elite, Max had ingratiated himself with an influential landowner, Dominic Bartoli. His alliance with Bartoli was cemented by his marriage to the man's daughter, Luisa, who, upon inheriting everything after her father's death, had turned it all over to her husband. Never had Luisa denied him anything.
Wealth was power. He sniggered at two-bit dictators like Saddam Hussein, lacking the wit to see the necessity of adapting one's methods to the times. Through religion, the early popes in the Dark Ages and medieval period had controlled kings and their people just as some desert princes were able to do even now.
Today the fight for supremacy was being fought on a different front. Economic power had become the primary means of achieving one's ends. Slowly, Max had gathered the threads of power into his own hands, adding textiles, chemicals, and steel to his late father-in-law's coffee plantationâhis factories in São Paulo turning out goods for export all over the world. And now the chance that he knew would come was here.
Tires crunched on the gravel as a car drove up. A car door slammed. Even before his dim eyes saw the figure dressed in a tan trench coat over a navy blazer and tan trousers, he smelled the musky odor of his son's cologne.
“Papa, you look better today.”
A lie. He was worse and they both knew it, but they had to play this little game of make-believe.
“Carlo,” he said, waving a feeble hand to the chair beside him.
His son, his body muscular and fit from years of horseback riding and other sports, sat down deferentially beside him. Luisa had given him two other sons, but this, the youngest, was the only one who mattered now. It was important that Carlo see beyond the pitiful wreck of what his father had become to the man he had once been.
“You have everything you need?”
“Yes, Papa.”
Those eyes, dark like his mother's but filled with a steady flame of awareness that she had never possessed, looked at him with respect. Carlo was one of the very few people he had ever lovedâcertainly more than Luisa, whose adoration had dwindled eventually into a submissive adherence to his wishes. She'd been dead for years. He never missed her.
“When do you leave?”
Carlo glanced at the Rolex on his wrist and replied, “In a few minutes.”
A vague unease crept over Max; he brushed away the feeling. With all his failing strength, he gripped Carlo's arm and said, “This will be the most important thing you ever do in this life. These next three days are our last chance to complete the Plan. Do not fail me!”
With an oddly feminine gesture that reminded Max of Luisa when she was nervous, Carlo patted the thick black hair springing back in waves from his low forehead. “I won't fail you, Papa.”
“Call me when you've completed your task.”
“I will.”
He was only vaguely aware of Carlo's departure. Already in Max's imagination Carlo was driving down the dirt road leading to the highway twisting over the hills to São Paulo and the airport, where a pilot would be waiting to fly his son in the company jet.
San Francisco would be pleasant this time of year, everything in full bloom. He'd never dared go there himself: too many people might have recognized him. Perhaps in another life he'd visit. He'd sucked the last drop of vitality from this one. But he had to hang on, at least until Carlo called. The window of opportunity would not be open long.
| Carlo Hauptman | San Francisco, June 17, 1992 |
The plush leather seat of the Gulfstream and a hot breakfast of eggs and steak washed down with cups of steaming hot cafezinho along with reading
The New York Times
had made the plane ride go pleasantly fast.
